


In The Dark

by beetlejoos



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Gil Arroyo Needs a Hug, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Psychological Trauma, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 66,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetlejoos/pseuds/beetlejoos
Summary: Malcolm’s team work on finding him.Malcolm works on staying alive.
Comments: 730
Kudos: 357





	1. Reorientation

Malcolm returns to consciousness definitively and abruptly, gasping as pain and heat bloom across his cheekbone. His neck aches from where his head has snapped to the side, and it takes him a few seconds to put it all together and realise he’s been _slapped_ awake.

Indignation and panic surge up inside him. His face heats, his breath stuttering in his lungs, as he strains to hear some clue as to what’s happening - because he’s in darkness. He hears the creak of a floorboard to his left, someone re-distributing their weight less than a metre away -

And _he can’t move -_ or at least, his mind clarifies with a thrill of fear, _his movement is restricted…_ his wrists are bound tightly, _painfully_ , behind the back of a chair. Something else ( _rope? cable?)_ is wrapped around his arms, pinning him against the chair frame. As his brain catches up with his body he realises the bindings aren’t just restraining him: they’re pretty much all that are keeping him from toppling to the floor. He feels physically _wrecked,_ limbs heavy and weak… and he’s only been awake a few seconds.

_Not good._

“What - ?”

This time the slap comes from the other side. He cries out in pain and _what the fuck_ because this is up there already as one of the least pleasant ways he’s ever woken up, and that list has some fierce competition.

“Stop whining.”

 _This is bad. This is unequivocally bad._ Malcolm’s mind races as he tries to get his breathing under control, to find a face in his memory to match the voice above him. It’s deep. Calm. Determined. The voice of someone who thinks they’re in control.

_Which, given all the evidence at his disposal - they are._

He turns his head and squints, trying to see some glimmer in the darkness. This achieves two things. First, he becomes conscious of a splitting ache at the base of his skull, which elicits a corresponding lurch in his stomach when he moves his head. Second, he can feel something in his hair, pressing against the bridge of his nose. _Not dark._ _Blindfolded_ _._

He swallows back his instinctive panic at the idea. Blindfold might be _good_. Means he hasn’t seen any faces, takes the urgency out of this situation for whoever it is standing in front of him. Gives him time to talk his way out of this.

_Out of… what?_

“What’s going on?” He tries to ignore how distressingly wobbly his voice is. “Who are you?”

“You think you’re a smart one, don’t you?”

A hand lands heavily on his shoulder and Malcolm flinches, bracing himself for another blow. _He needs_ _context_ _-_ the question has somehow provoked the man standing in front of him, and he has no idea why. _Does this man know who he is? Does_ _he_ _know the man?_ The hand rests there, thumb lying gently in the hollow of Malcolm’s throat in a way that manages to make him feel even more vulnerable. But he forcibly holds himself still: trying to buck the hand off, he senses, would not be a good idea.

The hand squeezes, and every tiny hair on his neck stands up before the man finally releases him and disappears back into the shapeless dark around him. He’s not sure which is worse: the knowledge he has no way of escaping that touch when it comes again… or the dizzying sense of just how unmoored he feels with it taken away. The man could be anywhere now, and Malcolm could be anywhere too: he could be sitting in a janitor’s closet or a centre of a football stadium and he’d have no way of telling the difference. He has no way to orientate himself.

“You wait right there,” the voice says, and then footsteps are moving away from him. Malcolm cocks his head instinctively, trying to map out the space around him by the sound of his footfalls. There’s the creak of a door ahead of him. Footsteps descending stairs. _Does that mean he’s above the ground floor - or is there a basement? Is there just the one man or are there more of them?_ Part of him is sure he already knows the answer, but his thoughts are cloudy - rising up slowly and drifting away as he tries to focus in on them. _Is he alone right now?_ He can’t hear anyone else moving or breathing in the room with him… but how would he know if they were just there, silently _watching —_

**_Bright?_ **

Malcolm gasps and jerks in the ropes. He’s so utterly thrown by the voice, coming from so close beside him, that he loses track of what it’s actually saying to him for a good few seconds.

**_— don’t know if you can hear this, or if you’ll be able to answer. I hope you can. Kid -_ **

_“_ Gil?!” It comes out in a whisper, with all the desperate hope of a prayer.

**_Yes! Kid! It’s me. I’m right here with you, ok? We’re gonna get you out of there. Just stay calm and hold on._ **

_Hallucination,_ warns the calmest part of his mind, but the rest of him is tripping over in its eagerness to believe what he’s hearing. There’s other voices too, buzzing like flies in the background - muffled sounds beyond his comprehension. Malcolm strains to listen, twisting in the chair as if he’d be able to see Gil appearing over his shoulder, right where the voice is coming from.

Gil - _or the voice in his head; jury’s still out_ \- hisses something he doesn’t catch before addressing Malcolm again.

**_— think I know that? Listen, Malcolm - is it safe for you to talk right now?_ **

“What?” he manages, and he’s taken aback by how breathless his voice sounds. He doesn’t understand the question. He doesn’t understand where Gil is. _He’s not real,_ whispers the clinical part of his mind. _You_ _know_ _he’s not real. You’re concussed. If Gil was really here, he wouldn’t leave you sitting here like this. He’d be_ _helping_ _you._

**_Can you tell me where you are?_ **

Gil’s voice is more strained than usual: whether from anger or stress or fear, he can't tell. It’s hard to profile when it’s just a voice in the dark. _And when your subject is a figment of your imagination._

“Are you real?”

The voice falls silent, like the connection has been cut off. Malcolm regrets the hopeful question immediately. He’s ruined it. _So it wasn’t real - what did that matter?_ It was something to cling on to; it was better than being alone. Marooned in this suffocating blackness.

**_… I’m real, kid._ **

Malcolm exhales shakily. The question has upset Gil somehow, and he feels bad for it, but it’s lost amidst the rush of gratitude that he's still there at all. And he must be there, somehow: Gil wouldn't lie to him. Even as a hallucination, he’s pretty sure Gil would tell him straight.

“Where are you? Are you here?” There’s silence and Malcolm is sure he’s said the wrong thing again. He knows he’s missing something important, but he can’t begin to make sense of what it is. “Are you ok?”

Something like a sigh.

**_I’m not… I’m not in the same room, no. Try to stay calm, ok? I’m guessing you took a nasty bump on the head, and God knows what else. Bright… you’re with Jason Byers._ **

And the pain, the fog is slapped away in an instant; like he’s been plunged into ice water.

The memory crashes back into Malcolm in high definition, surround sound horror. _The plan had been to send him in to the factory. He’d heard something at the bottom of the staircase, gone to check. Then sudden movement behind him - someone dragging him - the rumble of an engine -_

His breathing must pick up again, loud enough for Gil to hear it - _over the earpiece, the earpiece he must_ _still_ _be wearing, the mic under his shirt… and what’s gonna happen to him if Byers spots it?_

_What’s going to happen even if he doesn’t?_

**_Bright, it’s gonna be ok. You’re not alone in this. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere. We’re gonna work together to get you out of there. Ok?_ **

Stupidly, Malcolm nods - but Gil clearly isn’t waiting for an answer because he carries on anyway:

**_That’s it. Just breathe. Now… can you tell us anything about where you are?_ **

Of course he can. He can do that. He needs to get a hold of himself. It’s a miracle he still has this connection to Gil. It’s a gift: he has to use it.

 _Plus if Gil is listening, that probably means JT and Dani are too._ Malcolm could at least try not to fall apart in front of his team.

 _This is what you’re good at,_ he tells himself. _Talking down killers._ Sure, he has no idea where he is, he has a gaping head wound and whatever lies ahead of him is probably going to be broadcast to the entire precinct… but a little pressure just sharpens the mind, right?

Right.

He just has to stick to the facts. There’s no point getting lost in how he feels; in speculation.

“I can’t see.” And _dammit_ , _that didn’t sound nearly as calm as he’d have liked._ “He knocked me out. I don’t remember how I got here. I think… I think he put me a car. I’m restrained and… and blindfolded. I don’t think I can free myself. And I’m pretty sure he’s downstairs.”

He can practically hear Gil’s jaw clenching in the heavy pause that follows. There’s a rustling sound.

**_Bright - is there anything you can tell us that might give us a lead on where you are? Sounds, smells - traffic noises -anything at all?_ **

It’s JT, and Malcolm feels strangely comforted at hearing his voice, coming in crisp and firm over the earpiece. He swallows. “JT. Is Dani there too?” A pause, and then -

**_I_** **_**’** m here, Bright. Just sit tight. And maybe try answering the question?_ **

Malcolm smiles. The gentle dig calms him, somehow, and helps him focus: reminds him why his whole team are pushing him on the same question. Because the connection could fail at any moment: the tiny earpiece and the mic taped to his sternum are connected via Bluetooth to the discreet radio unit, tucked away safely in his suit jacket pocket. He’s not wearing the jacket now (and his shoes are missing too) but clearly Byers must have dumped it close enough for the connection to still work. At any moment Byers could come back and move him out of range - or Byers could go through his pockets, find the radio transmitter and destroy it…

W _hat can he tell them? What does he know?_

“It, uh - it’s cold. Wooden floors. Quiet, not much traffic. I don’t think I’ve heard the subway. Smells like - like paint. And wax. And…. old laundry. An old house, maybe?” There’s a sound - someone putting a hand over the mic, or simply moving away from it, and a series of hissed voices. He imagines Gil setting people off, a sudden flurry of orders. JT and Dani moving into action. _Not Gil_ , he knows, even though Gil will _want_ to be chasing leads. Gil will stay with Malcolm.

 ** _You know how to play this, Bright_. _Anything you can get from him that helps us close in on your location, we’ll be listening. But it goes without saying:_** **_don’t_ ** **_take any unnecessary risks. Don’t push his buttons, just try and keep him talking for as long as you can. Understand?_ **

There’s a creak from directly below him. It’s almost laughable how quickly his system floods with adrenaline: the fear is sharper now he knows who he’s up against. His ankles - bound, just like his wrists - jerk, feet bouncing against the floor. His body’s instinct to run is stronger than the clinical knowledge _he can’t._

“He’s coming back.” He hates that he sounds like a frightened kid when he says it. This could be his last chance to talk to his team: he has to make it count. “Listen - Byers is a visionary killer. So far the symbolism of his murders has been more important to him than his choice of victim. That's what led him to kill - but that changes with me. He doesn’t have a plan for me yet, he didn’t know I was coming - I’m not part of his design. If he’s starting from an unfamiliar place… then I think we’ll be somewhere he knows well. Somewhere he feels secure. He might not have wanted to bring me here: he had no choice. He might not have killed here before…“

The steps are on the stairs now. “Gil, listen - I want you to know…“

Gil tries to cut him off before he can finish the sentence, refusing to go where Malcolm’s mind is leading him. **_Kid - don’t -_**

“ - it’s not your fault. Whatever happens, it’s not -“

The door bangs open and Malcolm falls silent, shrinking in the chair despite himself. For a moment there’s only his breaths in the dark, and the slow, steady approach of footsteps.

“Now then, Mr Bright. What am I going to do with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awesome artwork made by stlouisphile! 💜


	2. Everything Went South

It was a weird one, even for them.

Three bodies. No discernible connection between them. A gas station attendant in her sixties - a twenty-something arts student - a single dad just back from a family vacation. All three were residents of the same city, but the crossover ended there.

Later, when they had their suspect pool whittled down to just a couple of names, Bright had speculated that the progression of victims revealed an unconscious pattern: their killer was growing in confidence.

He'd started with a frail, older lady, - possibly his first ever kill - an opportunistic snatching. Then he progressed to a young woman, fit and healthy but still likely easy to overwhelm for someone of the killer’s build and sex. Then a man in his late forties, closer to the killer’s own demographic.

This was a man who was now confident enough to try taking on his own natural predator: a criminal profiler. Bright had made the argument with his usual ‘surely you see that!’ hand gestures, his ‘I’ve finally cracked this!’ grin. Gil had refused, argued back, and eventually - listened.

That will haunt him, later.

But when Bright had suggested it, it seemed the best way of luring out a killer whose movements were proving slippery. Because on top of the seemingly random nature of the three vics - found clean of prints and DNA in three different, seemingly-unrelated locations - there had been three entirely different causes of death.

Rosa Gibson, 66, was strangled and thrown from the window of her apartment building.

Mae Tanaka, 22, was identifiable only by dental records, her body discovered near her campus, burned beyond recognition.

Joshua Roberts, 45, was discovered in his own garage, drowned, laid out on the dry concrete.

Once you knew there was a connection, it wasn’t hard to figure out the theme.

“Seriously?” JT had groused, “ _Earth, Wind and Fire_? That’s this guy’s motive?”

“More specifically, I’d say Earth, Air, Fire and Water. That’s the classical ordering of the four elements. I’m guessing there’s another victim we haven’t found, who represents Earth” Bright had announced, after they’d added Joshua to the whiteboard. “They’re likely currently listed as a missing person. If our killer buried them, it might take years for the body to be discovered. That tells us the killer isn’t doing this to send a message. What’s important to him is the meaning _he_ attaches to these murders. He doesn’t need anyone else to recognise what he’s doing.”

“Except maybe the victims,” pointed out Dani. “Timelines point to all three of them being held for between 24 and 48 hours before their time of death. He must be doing something with them during that time.”

“We know he’s been withholding food,” Malcolm had said, thinking out loud. “Joshua’s body showed more signs of physical violence than Rosa’s. He could be trying to convince them of his cause, or to prepare them, somehow. Or it could be growing sadistic tendencies. Or possibly... some combination of all three.” He’d huffed out a breath in frustration.

“If you’re saying Earth’s already been done... does that mean our guy’s finished? One murder for each element?” Gil had asked. Malcolm had frowned in that distracted way of his, tilting his head at the whiteboard.

“If he's completed a full ‘cycle’ of murders... then my guess is now he’ll start off on another.”

“So what’ll it be next?” JT had asked. “Colours of the rainbow? Favourite flavours of ice-cream?” Bright had given JT a look, and Gil had cut in, trying to keep things on track.

“Any way of predicting what this new cycle’s gonna look like?”

And - Gil remembers this vividly - Malcolm had taken on that pinched look, like he was personally culpable for not knowing. Like he should already have the answer written up on the whiteboard.

“I don’t know,” he’d confessed. “These four elements hold some meaning for the killer. He won’t move far away from them. But if I'm right... then by finishing this 'cycle', he’s already achieved what he set out to do. It’s rare that any of us get to... fulfil our dreams the way our killer just has.” Dani had pulled quite a face at Bright’s wording there, but they’d all gotten the gist. “In his mind, he will have been expecting - _something_ , when he completed all four murders. A sense of peace, perhaps. But the compulsion to kill will still be there. That’s going to lead to some serious cognitive dissonance. He’s smart, tactical, controlled in most aspects of his work but all the same... I think right now... this is a killer in crisis.”

“Crisis? Like, he’s having a mental breakdown?” asked Dani.

“Possibly,” murmured Bright, but he hadn’t sounded entirely convinced. “I think... he’ll have to find a _reason_. A reason to repeat, or escalate, or refine this cycle, so that he can _allow_ himself to embark on another.” Malcolm had stepped closer to the whiteboard, taking on that inward look as he theorised out loud. “He’s growing in confidence and... based on the escalating signs of violence... he’s enjoying each kill more than the last. Our killer’s not done. The only question is... does _he_ understand that yet?”

***

Now Gil’s back in the conference room, across from where Bright had run down his theory less than 48 hours earlier. Their suspect now has a name and a mugshot: Jason William Byers. He's a softly spoken, self-contained man (according to his co-workers), but physically strong and imposing (according to the pictures they’ve dug up). They know his home address (currently unoccupied) and his place of work, Miller’s drum factory. The factory, the suspected killing ground, had been the missing link - what had led to their breakthrough, to Bright poring over the employee files and pulling a name out of the pile. The thing they have no clue about is where Byers has run to... and _now he has Malcolm._

It was after they’d sent Malcolm into the factory that things had gone south, impossibly fast. Byers never should have been able to make it out of that factory, let alone escape and take their profiler with him. They’d had the floor-plans, every exit covered... except for the one they later discovered, where a thin wall had collapsed between the basement and the disused subway tunnel. It must have been how Byers had been bringing his victims in and out. Turned out the hidden exit was common knowledge amongst the oldest workers; management had no clue. Their luck had failed them at every turn... and _then_...

Gil’s heart had leapt to his throat when he realised _the line to Bright was still, miraculously, open,_ even if the kid had long stopped replying. On the journey back to the station, while Dani and JT co-ordinated with the tech team, Gil had clutched the radio unit like a lifeline, listening desperately for any clues as to where Malcolm was being taken. Back at the precinct, the others started combing through the CCTV footage from outside the factory, and a nervous-looking woman had silently shuffled in to start recording Bright’s side of the call for audio analysis. Gil had stayed staring at the radio, now set on the table in the centre of the conference room, as the seconds and minutes stretched out.

This link to Bright was an unquestionable stroke of luck. At the least, it could help them narrow down his probable location; if their luck held, it might help them identify the exact position of their missing profiler. Gil knew that and was grateful for it. It didn’t change the fact that sitting here, listening in on Malcolm being taken further and further away from him, felt like a personally-tailored form of torture.

Occasionally he’d hear a soft groan or a breath. When that happened, he’d unmute the call, trying to rouse Malcolm - but the kid either couldn’t answer, or couldn't hear him. It was possible, Gil knew, that the kit had been damaged in whatever scuffle had taken place, meaning Gil could hear Malcolm but Malcolm would have no idea that Gil was there. It was also possible that the battery would die; that Bright would be taken out of range; that the moment he woke up, Byers would spot the mic and cut the connection. At any second the unit could go dead and they’d be plunged into silence, and this one link to Malcolm would be ripped away from him.

***

There’s the sound of a trunk opening. Gil quickly checks his watch and signals Dani through the window. She turns to relay the message to the others. Their search radius will be determined by how long Byers has been on the road.

Gil leans in closer to the radio, ready to seize any clue it might yield them, as JT and Dani return to the conference room. “CCTV’s a bust,” confirms JT softly.

There’s the sounds of rustling and exertion. _Bright is probably being carried somewhere..._

“Turner’s reached out to the Feds about tracking the signal,” murmurs Dani. “We should get an update soon”. Gil nods once, curt. Unlike cellphones, the NYD don’t have jurisdiction over tracing the kinds of radio signals they used for the Byers operation. The FBI do - and the idea they might drag their heels, or not co-operate with Malcolm’s life on the line, conjures up a helpless rage that Gil can’t afford to indulge right now. He’s praying the Feds get back to them fast with an answer. In the meantime, he’s going to do everything he can to ensure they find Bright without them.

Gil leans forward, glancing at his team briefly before pressing the ‘talk’ button. “Bright?” he murmurs softly. “You there?”

There’s no answer and after a beat, Gil mutes it again. Thudding, irregular sounds continue to crackle out of the radio. Much as Gil hates to imagine the killer manhandling Bright out of the car, it’s infinitely preferable to the other fear lurking at the back of his mind - _that he’s already killed Malcolm and is disposing of the body._

“The vics were all kept alive for at least a twenty-four hour period after Byers took them,” says Dani softly. “No reason for him to switch that up now.”

She’s saying it to comfort herself as much as the rest of them. They all hate just waiting, but the comms link is the best lead they have right now. Gil can’t bring himself to step away and join the others in the precinct who are currently searching for Byers’ possible hide-outs.

For a while - maybe ten more minutes - there’s just those sounds of movement, occasionally punctuated by a quiet moan. Gil sits up straighter in his chair, sensing Bright might be on the cusp of waking - when a harsh sound ricochets around the conference room, making them all jump in their seats.

Gil flinches again when he hears the second blow, when he hears Malcolm’s cry of pain. His hand clenches into a fist below the table. He senses movement from across the table but finds he can’t look up at JT and Dani; he can’t take his eyes off the speaker in front of him.

All he can do is listen.

Either the kid is an Oscar-worthy actor or whatever happened in that factory has seriously messed up his recall. It’s easy to diagnose concussion from how disorientated Bright sounds; what’s hard is keeping their side of the conversation muted as Gil hears him fall silent. He knows he can’t risk startling Bright and giving away their one advantage over Byers, but nothing makes Gil more concerned for the profiler than the absence of his usual mile-a-minute questions; there’s no cajoling, no questioning, no provocations thrown out with his usual reckless instinct.

Gil makes himself wait fifteen seconds after it sounds like Byers has left the room before he risks trying Bright again.

_**Gil...?**_

The relief that washes through the conference room is palpable.

Dani tilts in her chair, dragging her hands through her hair; JT exhales and nods, as if confirming a personal theory. Gil pushes forward, knowing how quickly their window to communicate might close. He keeps his own emotions in line as Malcolm’s voice wavers; as Malcolm shakily asks where Gil is like he’s ten years old again and in the grip of a nightmare. Gil keeps going, steady as he can manage, as he has to break the news that Malcolm’s in the lair of the goddamn serial killer they’ve all been chasing for the last two weeks. He keeps it together, until...

_**I can’t see... I’m blindfolded.** _

Gil stares down at his white-knuckled grip on the table and feels himself starting to slip.

He can’t make his voice steady enough to respond calmly to Bright’s words. _This was their shot._ If Bright can’t describe where he is, even a little, their chances of getting him back alive just got a damn sight smaller. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not be overwhelmed by despair - _how can he keep Bright clear and calm, if he can’t even keep himself -?_

JT steps in, fills the silence. By the time Malcolm’s rambled off the few facts he can glean, Gil’s back in control. And that’s how he vows to stay, no matter what he hears - even when Malcolm decides to spend his final few words trying to make Gil feel better, of all things.

Because staying clear-headed is his best chance to help Malcolm. He glances up at Dani and JT, seeing his own fear mirrored in their eyes, as Byers’ words ring out around the conference room.

**Now then, Mr Bright. What am I going to do with you?**

***

Malcolm exhales, thinking inexplicably of his yoga practise.

_Breathe out your negative emotions for three... two... one..._

When he speaks again, he’s already decided, it will be as a profiler - not as a scared hostage. He owes himself that at least, concussion or no concussion.

And - he’s going to have disregard the fact that Gil and the others are listening in. Gil would want him to play it safe - and Malcolm plans to, more or less - but he can’t do what he needs to do and keep his team happy at the same time. If he gets it wrong, he figures they’ll forgive him. These are trying circumstances.

He’s way more pleased than he should be that when he opens his mouth, his voice doesn’t shake.

“You seem to already know who I am.” He keeps his tone neutral, gently enquiring, as if a stranger had come up to greet him at one of his mother’s hideous high society events. “I think we might have met before, but my head’s a little scrambled. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m getting things wrong.”

“You’re a cop,” says Byers and Malcolm twitches instinctively when the voice comes from a different direction than he expected. _This puts a new spin on the blindfold,_ he realises. _It’s not about anonymity. It’s about intimidation._

_To be honest... mission accomplished, Jason._

“No. I’m a profiler,” says Malcolm smoothly.

“Same difference.”

“Again, no,” says Malcolm. “Sorry. But it’s a pretty important difference. Cops chase down criminals and killers. Put them behind bars. That’s not what I do.”

Silence. Malcolm licks his lips, praying he’s choosing the right tactic here. The darkness and lack of response are incredibly disconcerting. “It’s my job to get to know people like you. Why they do what they do. To understand their work.”

“ _Understand_ ,” murmurs Byers - and what is that tone? _Confusion, awe, scepticism?_ It's too hard to do this without his eyes, without being able to search for the tells he’s used to spotting. “And how do you do that?”

“Well... a lot of training, mostly. Studying human behaviour. Reading body language. Listening to what people say.”

“You watch.” It’s a flat statement, not a question.

“... Right,” says Malcolm, unable to keep a tinge of uncertainty out of his voice. He has no idea what effect his words are having right now, but talking has to be better than _not talking_ ; better than just waiting, helpless, for whatever Byers intends to do to him. “So... that’s what I do. My name’s Malcolm.”

Silence.

“Malcolm Bright. And your name is Jason... right? Jason Byers?”

More silence. 

“Could you tell me where I am, Jason?”

There’s a scrape of something being moved across the floorboards. After a tense few seconds, he hears a creaking from right in front of him. _He’s sitting down_ , Malcolm realises, and the part of him that isn’t scared is fascinated - sitting for _what? A dialogue? A lecture? Or did Byers just drag over a chair to take the weight off while he studies Malcolm?_

“... Jason?”

The silence stretches on. With every second, Malcolm feels his confidence waver, the pain in his head pulse stronger. _Is his head injury affecting his judgement? Is it possible he blacked out and missed Byers’ response?_ He can’t help gasping when Byers’ suddenly touches him, with no warning - hot fingers brushing lightly against his cheek.

“You think... you understand me?”

Malcolm wouldn’t need half his training to know he has to tread carefully. He opens his mouth to respond - and startles, clamping his lips together when the fingers slide from his cheek to his mouth. There’s no pressure being exerted - Byers isn’t forcibly silencing him - but opening his mouth would feel like offering some kind of invitation to the fingers pressing lightly against his lips. It’s incredibly unsettling.

“And how about you, Malcolm?” Byers asks. He’s mirroring the same gentle curiosity of Bright’s own tone and _oh, that’s deliberate, that’s mockery_. “Do you think I understand you?”

Bright waits for the pressure of Byers’ fingers to be removed. When they stay, he tries to twist his head away, to break the contact so he can answer; but Byers’ other hand grips his hair painfully, holding him in place. He grunts, but manages to keep his lips closed. His heart is hammering again, and he knows it’s exactly the reaction Byers wanted.

There’s a long pause. Bright sits, silenced, breathing shakily through his nose, fighting to stay calm.

It’s maybe a full minute later when Byers releases him, and Malcolm can’t help turning his head as far away from the man as he can manage. _None of the victims showed signs of sexual assault_ , he reminds himself. The horrifying _intimacy_ of those fingertips on his mouth was a power play, that was all. It told him a little more about the man sitting in front of him.

“Why did you do that?” he manages - _because the reason Byers gives will be almost as illuminating as the real reason. Because the question panders to Byers’ ego and flattery might make him kinder. Because asking makes Bright look more confused and out of his depth than he really is, which might prove useful, and -_

\- because the more Bright can keep this ticker-tape analysis running through his head, the easier it is to pretend he has some level of control in this situation.

_Which he doesn’t._

They both know that was the point Byers just made.


	3. A New Strategy

Malcolm’s strategy has been evolving rapidly since Byers dragged over that second chair _._ Now at least, he understands the size of the ego he’s dealing with.

He’d anticipated a degree of panic from the killer. This situation can’t have been something Byers planned for, after all. Capturing him has forced Byers to improvise, and Malcolm had expected a level of vulnerability to come with that. His initial approach had been to try and be as calming and controlled as possible - anything that might ease that sense of panic and reduce the likelihood of unplanned violence. Anything that might build some kind of connection between captor and captive.

Turns out, that initial strategy was completely wrong.

Byers isn’t interested in forming a connection with Malcolm, or scared by the curveball that’s been flung at him. He’s not scared of being _caught_. If he was, going through Malcolm’s pockets and finding the radio transmitter would have been the least he would have done. _Catching Malcolm,_ he is beginning to realise, _might not feel like a problem for Byers… it might feel like a bonus_.

For some reason - possibly because Byers has already carried out at least three murders; possibly something to do with the criminal profiler who's currently at his mercy - Byers feels _invincible._ And the slapping, the blindfold, the refusal to answer questions - they’re not just ways of reinforcing Malcolm’s powerlessness. They’re signalling how inferior, how disposable, how _unimportant_ Byers thinks he is. _So where does that leave him?_

If Malcolm tries to calm Byers - to reason with him and soothe him - he’ll irk Byers’ own sense of control.

If Malcolm pushes for answers - or if Byers senses Malcolm trying to manipulate him in any way - he suspects Byers will punish him for his presumption.

If Malcolm tries to get Byers to brag about his plans and methodology, it won’t work. Byers doesn’t care about impressing Malcolm.

But if Malcolm gets things wrong - if he’s scared, he slips up, he _misunderstands_ …?

He’s willing to bet that Byers will be more than happy to correct him. ****

***

Gil has no idea what is happening.

The team had agreed with Gil’s plan to keep as quiet as possible at their end - they don’t want to throw the profiler off his game, or to risk Byers discovering them and taking it out on Bright. But even though it’s his own suggestion, Gil is having to bite his tongue to stop himself from urging Bright to _tread carefully_.

He feels as blind as Malcolm must feel, his mind racing as he tries to interpret the long silences on the other end of the line. He's nearly bouncing in frustration by the time Bright finally speaks again. ****

 **_Why did you do that?_ ** ****

The kid sounds shaken. _Whatever just happened, it wasn’t pleasant._ Gil closes his eyes, trying to focus on the tone of Bright’s voice; work out if he’s been injured. More silence. The urge to say _something_ , _anything_ to Bright grows overwhelming - when the kid finally tries again.

 **_We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry… it wasn’t my intention to make you angry._ ** ****

His tone has shifted - from deliberately calm to something meeker, more self-deprecating. His voice is less steady too. _Is that fear? Pain? Or part of Bright’s strategy?_

 ** _Of course I don’t understand you,_** says Malcolm. ** _People are complicated… and I don’t_** ** _know_** ** _you. Just like you don’t know me. But I'd_** ** _like_** ** _to understand you. I’d like to understand what you’ve been doing._** ****

 **I know you.** ****

It’s almost a relief to hear Byers say something after his long silence. _Almost._ Gil wonders if it’s anything like what Bright was expecting him to say. _Does Malcolm feel the same saying this stuff as Gil feels hearing it… like he’s tap dancing on thin ice?_

 **You’re arrogant. You thought you could catch me. That’s why you came into my factory.** ****

Byers doesn’t sound angry - for a guy who’s murdered at least three people, he’s sounded remarkably calm from the beginning - but there’s an unmistakable edge to his voice.

 ** _You’re right._** Malcolm doesn’t hesitate. His voice has that _mea culpa_ frankness he uses sometimes - like when he’s trying to convince Gil that even though he didn’t follow procedure last time, _this time_ will be different. **_I was being arrogant. I don’t remember what happened, exactly… but I’m guessing you caught me off-guard._** ****

 **It wasn’t difficult.** ****

Gil catches Dani’s eye across the table. They both feel it; the way Bright is working to steer the conversation. Gil just hopes Bright can manage to eke the information they need out of Byers without incurring any more violence.

 ** _Right. I messed up… and now, here we are._** Pause. **_Did you keep your other victims like this? Tied up in your factory?_** ****

 **We’re not at the factory.** ****

**_We’re… we left the factory?_ **

There’s a smile in Byers voice when he answers, something subtle but malicious, responding to the fear Malcolm’s letting seep into his voice.

 **That’s right.** ****

**_That’s not… I don’t remember leaving…_ **

**You’ve been unconscious for longer than you think. We’re somewhere no one can bother us.Somewhere nice and private.** ****

**_You brought me… to your house?_** Malcolm sounds uncertain - like he knows this theory doesn’t quite make sense, but has nothing better to offer.

 **Not mine. But I used to stay here sometimes, as a kid. You’ll never see it, but the view is quite something.** ****

Gil is gesturing before Byers has finished speaking but JT is already on it, making sure every detail is noted down, for every possible lead to be chased. _Goddamn, but that kid is smart._ Gil daren’t risk startling him, but he wants to tell Malcolm how proud he is of him; of just how well he’s doing...

 ** _It’s quiet…_** Malcolm says it like it’s only just occurring to him. Like he hasn’t already observed it and catalogued it and passed it on to his team. ****

 **You noticed. No subway. No traffic. Not many ways to run.** That smile again, curling into Byers’ voice. **That** **is** **why you’re asking, isn’t it? Planning out your escape route?** ****

They all hear Malcolm’s breath catch, and Gil’s moment of triumph is cut short. Byers is doing something to Bright _-_ Gil can _feel_ it -

**Do you really think you can get away?**

The silence drags on, Bright’s breathing growing harsh and shallow before a tiny sound escapes him: a choked-off whine of pain. Dani seems to curl up in her seat, staring down at the table as whatever’s happening becomes too much for Bright grit his teeth through and he lets out deep, pained groan.

Something shifts. They hear Bright take a deeper gasp of air, as the sound of footsteps moves away. There’s another few seconds of tense, nerve-shredding silence…

Then a shaky sigh. Malcolm sounds exhausted when he finally whispers:

 **_Please tell me you guys got all of that._ ** ****

**_***_ ** ****

Malcolm has to swallow back a sob as Gil’s voice comes in, loud and clear on the line.

 **_We got it. You did great, kid. We’re chasing it up now and we’re gonna have you out of there in no time._ ** ****

_Yes, please._ Malcolm can hear Byers moving around below him; a faucet being turned on and off. He probably doesn’t have long. His collarbone is throbbing; he’s going to have a bruise in a couple of hours the exact shape of Byers’ handprint.

‘ _Do you really think you can get away?’_ Byers had asked the question with a teasing curiosity, his hand coming to rest on Malcolm's shoulder… and _squeeze._ Harder and harder, until Malcolm thought he could feel his bones grinding together. A parody of how Gil would squeeze him sometimes, to calm him down, or show he cared…

 **_Malcolm? Talk to me. Are you injured? How bad is it?_ ** ****

“I’m fine,” he whispers, and the huff he hears in his ear makes him smile in its familiarity. “Honestly. So far it’s been… uncomfortable, but he’s not seriously hurt me since he knocked me out.”

 ** _Thank God for that,_ **Gil sighs in his ear. **_Listen, kid - you’ve gotten us more than we could have hoped for. Promise me you’ll play it safe from here._** ****

“This is a new situation for Byers,” says Malcolm softly. “We don’t know what he wants. We don’t know what playing it safe looks like.”

 **_Byers holds people for at day, maybe two, before he kills. That was your profile, Bright. That gives us more than enough time to get you out of there. You’re gonna be cold and you’re gonna be thirsty but you’re gonna be in one piece. Ok?_ ** ****

But a fear has been slowly growing in Malcolm’s mind since he woke up here, stitched together from his impressions so far - that Byers might have more sadistic tendencies than he thought. _Which could end up being a_ _good_ _thing_ , he reminds himself sternly. A killer who wants to play with his hostage is better than one who is desperate to get rid of them. As an unplanned capture, it would be optimistic to think Byers plans to keep him around for even half as long as his other victims… a statistic Malcolm can’t quite bring himself to share with Gil and the others. _Because it doesn’t matter. Malcolm can beat those odds._ ****

**_… Bright?_ **

“Yes… yes, ok. You’ll be here?” he adds, unable to stop the desperation creeping into this voice. “You’ll stay on the line?” _Byers’ fingers had been_ _inches_ _from the mic under his shirt…_ it made Malcolm’s heart clench to imagine him finding it, and his link to the others being severed…

 ** _I’m not going anywhere,_** promises Gil, and Malcolm believes him. It’s enough to bolster him, to let him take a deep breath and straighten his shoulders, as Byers walks back into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise things pick up pace a bit in the next chapter!


	4. Further Attempts at Profiling

Byers is drinking water. It makes Malcolm aware of his own thirst, but he doesn’t think that’s actually Byers’ intention. No - Byers is simply relaxed enough that he went to grab a glass of water in the middle of all this. Now he’s drinking it, probably with his eyes on Malcolm. Making up his mind on what to do with him as Malcolm waits, helpless.

It’s infuriating.

He weighs the risks and benefits of letting the silence continue. Talking gives _him_ a greater sense of control, but is it really working in his favour? Byers seems perfectly content to ignore him, and continuing to distract him might make him angry. But distraction could also work in Malcolm’s favour… the longer Byers takes to make up his mind on what to do with him, the longer Malcolm stays _alive._

“Jason… may I call you Jason?”

Silence.

“I’ll go with Jason. Please could you take the blindfold off?”

He hears Byers take another sip. He tries again.

“I know your name, so it doesn’t really matter if I see your face as well. I’d be a lot more comfortable without it.” _And - on the miraculous chance that Byers actually says yes - he’ll have more clues to feed to his team, so they can find him faster and get him the hell out of here..._

“More comfortable.” Byers repeats his phrase neutrally, his voice coming from directly in front of him. (Malcolm’s pretty sure they’re sitting eye to eye. He’s trying _hard_ not to focus on the idea that he’s the subject of Byers’ perpetual, silent scrutiny).

“Less disoriented,” Malcolm offers up, after a beat.

“I imagine it would be less frightening for you,” Byers suggests. There’s the hint of a smirk in his voice. Malcolm knows it’s designed to rile him, and refuses to let it.

“Ok, yes. That too.” He waits to see if this concession will gain him anything.

“And… you’d be better able to profile me,” Byers adds, after a pause. “ _That,_ too. You’re just _itching_ to look me in the eye. To see me, the way I see you. You’re a slippery one, aren’t you?”

He returns to his water, leaving Malcolm to reflect on that statement. Malcolm clenches his jaw. _That went well,_ he has to remind himself. He _knew_ the odds of Byers actually doing what he asked were minimal. What he’s gained instead is a clearer sense of the man sitting in front of him.

Byers _enjoys_ catching Malcolm out. Exposing trickery. Pointing out faulty assumptions. _What if he can make that work for him?_ Malcolm’s fairly sure that humiliating him verbally feeds the same need that might otherwise send Byers forcing his fingers into Malcolm’s mouth, or setting him on fire. If Malcolm can play on that impulse, that urge to _school_ him, maybe it will keep Byers' violent impulses satisfied a little while longer, before he resorts to -

“Which was your favourite?” 

The voice throws Malcolm from his internal calculations. “I’m sorry?”

“Of my murders. Which one was your favourite?”

Malcolm’s mind stutters. In all his mental preparations for what might come next, a direct question about Byers’ atrocities is at the bottom of the list. It’s a complete U-turn from the man’s evasiveness so far and sets all his internal alarms ringing. _Something’s changed. Byers must have worked something out, come to some kind of decision_ _already_ _-_ far sooner than Malcolm was anticipating -

He needs to be so, _so_ careful.

“I, ah… I don’t…”

“No games. Answer the question.” 

But Malcolm needs time to work out the implications of any response _before_ he gives it. He stalls. “Well… honestly, _favourite_ probably isn’t a word that I’d use. I think -”

There’s the squeal of Byers pushing his seat back, and Malcolm freezes. He hears the man lunge towards him - and suddenly he’s _moving,_ chair-legs screeching as he’s dragged backwards through the darkness, his bound feet skimming over the floor. “What - Jason -!”He jerks to a halt and frantically tries to gain some purchase on what’s happening. “Jason, wait -! _”_ But a hand lands on his chest and _pushes._ The chair shifts dizzyingly beneath him as Malcolm teeters backwards, his dark world tilting horribly - he tips helplessly over -

And then the hand fists in his shirt-front, saving him from falling. He’s held suspended from Byers’ grip, his weight balanced precariously on the back two chair-legs. He can feel them creaking and wobbling beneath him.

“You’re avoiding the question,” says Byers calmly.

“No,” gasps Malcolm, “I was just… thinking about my answer…“ His hands clench into helpless fists behind him where they’re bound to the chair.It feels like he’s tilted back at about 45 degrees to the floor, and the horrible sensation that he might fall at any second is making it hard to concentrate on what Byers is saying.

“Liar.” The voice sounds faintly amused. “You were trying to _avoid_ answering. Tell me what you first thought when I asked you that question, Mr Bright. What are you trying to hide?”

“I… my first thought… was I wondered what _your_ favourite murder was. That’s the first thing that came into my mind,” lies Malcolm. _Because it wasn’t - but it was one of his thoughts, and the safest answer Malcolm can think of right now._ It doesn’t satisfy Byers: the grip on his shirt-front _twists_ , enough to send his weight swinging. The chair slips beneath him and he sags in Byers' grip as the floor suddenly _disappears_ from under one of the chair-legs. His stomach lurches -

 _Because that’s why Byers has dragged him over here... because there’s a drop._ Malcolm’s mouth turns dust dry. _Byers_ _has_ _to be playing mind games with him._ He’s fairly sure he's in a house; the odds are he’s on the edge of a step. A single step, just a few inches high. This is all just psychological intimidation… 

_But how can he_ _know_ _? How can he know he’s not currently tilting backward over a fifty foot drop?_

“Do you have anything else to say?”

Malcolm licks his lips, distracted by fear. He can _feel_ the seams of his shirt straining, the fabric pulled tight across his shoulders and back as he dangles from Byers’ grip. _What gets him out of this? Does Byers want him to show contrition for not answering immediately?_ He knows that if he apologises, if he begs for mercy, he hands over too much power too soon and any chance of Byers actually listening to him will plummet… but if Byers is unsatisfied with the answer he’s given, he needs to offer something else up instead -

He hesitates too long. The hand on his shirt releases.For a second he’s left impossibly balanced, all of his weight pivoting on a single chair leg - before he topples backwards, in what feels like slow motion...

... and he’s falling, _plunging downward_ ,over the invisible ledge he can feel but can’t see - there’s a heart-stopping second as he registers he’s falling further than he thought, _past where the floor should be, down,_ _down_ -

\- then the full weight of his body is slamming onto his arms, bound to the chair-back beneath him. Malcolm _screams_. His vision flames red. He’s vaguely conscious of sickening pain in his left arm - a wave of heat from his existing head wound - but they’re all drowned out by the shrieking of his left wrist and fingers. He’d thought his hands were numb from the ropes, from reduced blood flow, but that was _wrong wrong wrong..._

He thinks he hears Gil’s voice in his ear saying something to him, but he can’t focus on anything but _how this feels_ in this moment. He tries to arch his back - _he needs to get up, get his weight_ _off_ _his injuries -_ but he’s not sure how. He cries out for help, even though he has no idea if Byers is still there, and the rational part of his mind knows that he wouldn’t take pity on him if he was…

He lies there, dizzy with pain, as helplessly stuck as a turtle on its back. It must be several minutes before he can think clearly enough to understand his situation. _No one is going to help him._ The only person who can end his agony is himself.

 _But what can he do?_ He tries to push the pain and disorientation aside and analyse his situation. It’s his left hand and arm - currently ( _excruciatingly_ ) trapped under his own weight that have taken the brunt of the damage from the fall _(and how far was that fall?! His arm feels_ _broken!_ _)._ If he strains hard enough, he _might_ be able to topple the chair onto its side, so that he’s resting on his right shoulder instead of flat on top of his wounded arm. He lets out a series of shaky breaths, and focuses on how to shift his weight without passing out.

He tries to rock himself sideways, and stifles a scream. The movement jars his injuries - but he can’t just _stay_ like this. He can’t hear Byers anymore... the man could leave him lying here for hours. The thought is unbearable. He grits his teeth and tries again, slower this time. He strains… muscles shaking, sweat popping on his forehead… as he levers his weight slowly off his wrist and arm... feeling the chair begin to tip sideways...

Something nudges against his side, arresting his momentum. Malcolm freezes, _because he didn’t hear Byers follow him down here._ He lost focus from the pain, the shock; it didn't occur to him that the man might _still_ be watching him as he struggles - 

The _something_ comes to rest gently against his chest, and it takes Malcolm a moment to understand what it is. A shoe.“No,” he gasps, but Byers is already pressing down, grinding Malcolm’s injured arm against the floor until he shrieks. “No, don’t, _don’t_ — _aah!_ ”

He blacks out for a second, before the weight lifts off his chest. A moment later, Byers pulls the chair upright again and Malcolm with it, an unwilling passenger, reeling in the darkness as he's dragged along. He clatters and bounces up a flight of steps, every one of them jarring his injured arm, rattling his teeth in his head; he's utterly disorientated beyond the fact he's going _up_ - _and that can't be a good thing._ He tries to wrench his hands into a less vulnerable position, so that he won’t land on them if he falls again - but it’s no use - the bindings keep them trapped in place. He feels the chair tipping backward again and moans. 

“I asked if you had anything to say.”

“Don’t drop me,” he pants, strategy be damned. “Please… don't drop me…”

“Then tell me,” says Byers, so calm it makes Malcolm want to scream.

“Tell you -? I-I’m sorry - “

“No _._ Stop lying. Stop trying to _out-think_ me, and _tell me what you thought, when I asked you that question_.”

It’s hard to focus, between the pain and the terrible knowledge that a sadistic serial murderer is all that’s stopping him from falling for a second time onto what feel like already-broken bones. It leaves him no reserves left to dissemble when he realises what Byers wants from him, and he babbles out his answer. “I - I was scared _,_ ok? I thought - whichever murder I chose - would be the way that you decide to kill me... That’s why I didn’t answer right away, that’s the truth, I swear _._ ”

Malcolm braces himself… but he’s being lowered, set back onto all four chair legs. He finds himself sliding across the floor as Byers pushes him away from the edge... until he finally feels the man step away. He's safe, on solid ground again… for now _._ He slumps in the ropes and tries to get his breathing under control. He's trembling, he realises, from the aftermath of fear and adrenaline, and the tiny part of his brain not occupied with trying to calm himself down notes that Byers is _unfairly_ strong - the man's not even out of breath, and he's been hauling Malcolm around like a rag doll. Byers hasn't even broken a sweat, whereas _Malcolm._..

 _He just lost his composure... at the first real threat Byers has thrown at him_. He’s meant to do better than this. He realises Gil and the others will have heard him pleading over the radio, and a sudden swell of shame engulfs him. He barely has time to acknowledge it before he feels the man’s hand touch his cheek. It makes him flinch, and immediately he feels another stab of humiliation.

“You’re ashamed.”

Malcolm’s unable to stop the bitterness creeping into his voice. “Really? _I’m_ ashamed, that you just… broke my arm?”

“It’s what your body language is telling me. You lowered your head. Bowed your shoulders. And now… you’re blushing. Did you know it’s impossible to fake a blush?”

“I did, actually,” snaps Malcolm, unable to stop himself, and Byers actually huffs out a laugh. Malcolm presses his lips together. He’s shaking with shock, and pain, and _anger_ , his emotions rattled loose. _He needs to get himself under control -_

“You don’t like being observed. Being _profiled._ Some would call that hypocritical.” 

“When I profile someone, I’m trying to _understand_ them. To build a connection with them. We both know that’s not what you’re doing.”

“Oh? Then what am I doing?”

Malcolm hesitates. He’s already said more than he knows is wise. His silence prompts Byers to reach out and grip him by his injured arm, the threat implicit. “Yes?”

“It’s not profiling,” grinds out Malcolm.

“Then what is it?” The fingers squeeze harder, so that he gasps his next answer.

“Torture. Abuse.”

“You wanted to understand _me_. I’m trying to understand you.”

“Not as a person. As a thing you can control. You aren’t trying to understand me. You’re trying to anatomise me.”

Malcolm is expecting more pain to follow this statement, but instead the hand releases. There’s just the creak of Byers leaning back in his chair, like he’s satisfied with the answer Malcolm has given him.

“You have a dramatic turn of phrase, Mr Bright. But at least you were honest, for a change. I appreciate honesty. Remember that when you answer my next question…Which one will it be?”

Malcolm feels his heart drum faster in his chest, but makes himself answer slowly. “Which _what_?”

“I liked what you said, earlier. So I’m going to let you choose. You've seen my methods: Earth, Air, Fire and Water. Which one will it be for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this chapter trickier to write for some reason, so I hope it makes sense!
> 
> It's all Malcolm right now, but we'll definitely check in with Gil and his POV again in the next chapter.


	5. Truth from Lies

_Malcolm feels his heart drum faster in his chest, but makes himself answer slowly. “Which what?”_

_“I liked what you said, earlier. So I’m going to let you choose. You've seen my methods: Earth, Air, Fire and Water. Which one will it be for you?”_

***

Gil’s pretty much reached the end of his tether - and then the son of a bitch comes out with _that_.

 **_You’re asking me to choose how I die?_ ** ****

“Where the hell are the FBI on this?” he snarls at the terrified young cop who’s just scurried into the room. “If it’s a court order they need, I’ll call the damn judge myself -”

 **_I won’t. I won’t do it._ ** ****

JT enters. “Turns out Byers spent a lot of summers away from home as a kid, but we got it narrowed down to four likely properties.” He slaps the papers down in front of Gil, who leans over the table and tries to focus in on them. They all know they need to get this right. They need a breakthrough, _now -_ before Byers breaks any more bones.

 _Jesus, that scream._ Gil will never be able to forget it.

 **I thought you’d be grateful to have a say.** Byers voice comes out of the radio, maddeningly calm, gently taunting, and Gil has to resist the urge to pick the damn thing up and smash it. **Not everyone gets a final request. See it as a gift.** ****

 **_I won’t collude in my own murder._ ** ****

**So you won’t answer my question?** ****

Gil closes his eyes and takes a breath before trying to focus on the properties again. One’s mainly farmland - that would work with the views Byers talked about - but the others are a better fit for the distance from the factory -

“Boss… maybe you should step outside for a while.” It’s Dani, looking as frayed as Gil feels. He’s not sure at what point she stepped back into the room. He’d encouraged JT and Dani to work the leads Malcolm had managed get out of Byers. Partly cos he wants his best officers on the case; partly to get them out of this live-broadcast hell. “You shouldn’t have to listen -”

“Bright’s not got a choice. Neither do I,” he says roughly. He glares back down at the four options, willing them to give up their secrets.

 **Let me have another try at _profiling…_ what did you say? It’s about reading body language? Studying behaviour?** ****

**_I said those were some of the skills a profiler learns._** Malcolm’s tone is wary; like he can't tell where this is going, but he’s spent enough time around Byers to know it's somewhere he won't like.

 **Alright then. I think for this, I’m going to have to sit directly behind you.** ****

On the radio, they can all hear Malcolm’s breath catch. Gil’s head snaps up.

 **_What do you mean?_ ** ****

**I’m going to measure your vitals. And then I’m going to ask you the same question again.** There’s noise from the radio; of a chair being scraped across the floor, of movement. **I’m telling you so that you don’t panic. This will go faster if I have a baseline where you're reasonably calm.** ****

Malcolm’s voice comes out faster, pitch rising: **Wait, Jason - this isn’t -** ****

There’s a muffled grunt, and the kid falls silent - and once again, it’s like someone’s pressed pause on the world around Gil, as all his attention focuses in on trying to understand what’s happening to Malcolm; if he’s being hurt. In the corner of his eye he sees JT has frozen too, his gaze likewise fixed on the radio with an expression that would strip paint.

 **Sssh,** murmurs Byers, almost lazily, like he’s soothing a frightened animal. Gil twitches. **When I take my hand away, you’re going to stay quiet and behave yourself. Understand? Stop squirming. I need your heart rate to slow.** ****

Gil’s own heart is pounding, pulse thumping in his ears. He has nowhere to channel the anxiety or the rage he feels; instead it’s just thundering inside him, drowning out anything and everything that isn’t the the sound of the radio. He knows he should be looking at those goddamn photos but it’s impossible to turn his attention elsewhere until he’s assured Bright isn’t in immediate danger. He feels a slight pressure against his arm. It’s Dani, leaning beside him, not looking at him but just nudging him with her shoulder, her own head bowed. Her presence helps ground him somehow, and he exhales a shaky breath.

 **I’m going to keep this hand right here, over your heart. And in a moment, I’m going to move my other hand to your throat. Do you understand?** ****

“Son of a bitch,” mutters JT. Gil tenses, and he’s sure the same thought that occurs to him is shared by the rest of his team - _if Byers is in close physical contact with Bright, he might feel the microphone._ Perhaps the kid nods - because a moment later, Gil can hear Bright exhaling over the link again, harsh and deliberate, like he’s trying to consciously control his breathing. Trying to force himself into calm. ****

 **That’s better.** Byers’ voice is soft, but it’s coming through as loud and clear as Malcolm’s - he must be speaking directly into Malcolm’s ear. **Now then. Let’s see if I can figure out your answer.** ****

Malcolm chokes out a laugh. It sounds brittle, on the edge of hysteria. ** _You can’t read me by taking my pulse. It’s not a lie detector -_** ****

 **Let’s start with Air.** ****

**_That’s not how it works._ ** ****

**I’d suffocate you. Possibly strangle you with my hands… or put a bag over your head.** ****

**_I told you, I won’t choose. I won’t facilitate you killing me._ ** ****

**Hmm. Your breathing has quickened, but not by much. I can see it doesn’t capture your imagination. How about Fire?** ****

“Boss…”

Gil tears his eyes away from the radio. _He should be giving orders right now;_ not freezing up, transfixed by every new horror Byers can throw at them. He cuts Dani off before she can repeat what he knows is probably a sensible argument to try and get him out of the room. “We need to put these options to Malcolm. Four locations is too many. He might be able to whittle them down to one or two.”

“We can’t do that til Byers steps out the room.”

“We might not have that long,” snaps Gil. “This is accelerating beyond our projected timeline. Staying quiet our end made sense when we thought we had twenty-four hours to work with - but we _don’t_. He’s discussing Bright’s own murder with him while we sit here looking at real estate!”

“Bright’s earpiece could’ve come loose. There’s a chance Byers could hear you… or that Bright might slip up, give us away. Things could get ugly real fast,” says JT - but he’s unsure. Gil can tell he is.

 **That’s more like it. Pulse is faster. You’re sweating.** ****

**_It’s a reaction to the pain. You did just break my arm._ ** ****

Gil digs his palms into his eyes. _Is this the right call? Or is Gil putting Bright in danger because he can’t stand to hear any more of this?_ He’d already tried the link once when Byers was there, when Bright had been screaming in pain. Gil hadn’t been able to stop himself, but it hadn’t mattered, in the end. The sounds of his agony had been so loud, even Bright himself hadn’t been able to hear him. ****

 **Your hand’s started trembling too. Are you _sure_ it’s not fear? Burning is a particularly painful way to die.** ****

“I swear to God -” Gil paces away from the speaker, one drop of self-control away from punching something. “We don’t have time for this. We need people moving in on these addresses -“

“We’ve reached out to local police for intel, but we don’t have the manpower to close in on all four at the same time,” says Dani, flat. She knows he knows this. They need SWAT, they need firepower - they need a single, unambiguous lead. He stares into her face and can see his own fear echoed in her eyes; fear that she’s ruthlessly burying under professionalism. ****

 ** _Did you do this to the others? Ask_** ** _them_** ** _to decide?_** It’s so strange, to hear Bright’s voice rising out of the speakers beside them. To have him so close and so impossibly far, all at once. **_Or did you choose for them?_** ****

 **Water. I drowned Joshua in the bathtub.** ****

**_Why do it, Jason? What’s it for? Why did they have to die; why do I have to die?_ **

_Bright is relying on him._ On Gil and the team figuring this out and saving him. And Gil’s letting him down. He doesn’t know how to work this out faster, how to do better, and he’s letting the kid down.

“We can’t risk talking to Bright while Byers is so close to his ear. When he steps away… maybe we give it a shot,” suggests Dani. ****

 **Last one, now. Earth. I’d dig a hole. Put you in a box.** ****

All three of them can hear the shift in Malcolm’s breathing.

**How would you feel about that? If I locked you up in a box and buried you away somewhere? Somewhere dark and quiet where no one would ever find you?**

Gil recognises the stifled, panicked sounds he’s hearing: he’s heard them before, when Malcolm’s in the grip of a panic attack or a flashback. Byers clearly notices them too; he sounds fascinated when he speaks again.

**Oh… I think we have a winner.**

**_Get off me_** , gasps Malcolm, and the sheer panic bleeding into his voice ratchets up the tension in Gil’s body even further, because he sounds _out of control_ for the first time since this all started - and if Bright’s got any hope of surviving this, he needs to be on his A game -

 **And to think you said this little experiment of ours wouldn’t work. Can you feel how fast your heart is beating?** There’s the sound of movement, and when Byers speaks again, his voice is fainter - as if he’s gotten up and circled round to take a better look at his captive. ****

**You should really try to calm down, Mr Bright or you’re going to pass out… and you’re not going to like where you wake up…**

He sounds amused - but Gil barely has time to register his fury over his fear that the kid's going to lose consciousness and their hopes of any more intel will go out with him. _He needs to calm down -_ but instead Malcolm’s gasps are getting faster and faster, thinner and thinner. His voice sounds desperate as it comes out of the speakers - half a prayer, half a curse -

**_Not now - please not now…_ **

Gil makes his decision. He leans forward, presses the button, and speaks as firmly and softly as he can.

“Kid, I’m right here. Malcolm. _Malcolm,_ _can you hear me_?”

***

Malcolm shouldn’t be surprised. Stress, exhaustion, a head injury. A serial killer holding him close and lovingly detailing all the ways he’d like to kill him. He’s had flashbacks triggered over less.

But it’s the total darkness that’s the final straw, because one minute he’s trying to bite back his fury at Byers, to mask his fear, and the next —

_Put you in a box._

She’s there, _she’s there_ , and he _can’t breathe…_

He screws his eyes closed under the blindfold, tells himself _it’s not real_ but the panic is already galloping under his skin. It’s a hallucination; a stress-induced hallucination from his over-active imagination, _he_ _knows_ _that, he can still stay in control…_ But his mind won’t listen; his body already flooded with adrenaline. Eyes closed or open, the darkness is the same, the Girl is still there - his father’s arm pulls tighter around his chest -

 _No - not his father’s -_ _Byers_. He’s not in the basement, he’s trapped in a completely different nightmare, and he’s going to die here if he doesn’t _focus,_ he’s going to

 _Put you in a box_

He twists against the rough rope, wrenching his injured arm, trying to let the pain ground him - but the pain isn’t strong enough, _nothing ever is._ The Girl stares up at him from inside the Box, reaching to pull him in beside her and

_Put you in a box_

He can’t, _he can’t can’t can't -_

 **Kid, I’m right here. Malcolm. Malcolm, can you hear me?** ****

“Stop it,” he gasps, “I can’t — no -“

Malcolm can’t even tell if Byers is still holding him, or if it’s his own panic constricting his chest, squeezing the air out of him. A hand grips his shoulder, _Byers, the Girl,_ he can’t tell _,_ but he wrenches away as hard as he can, a ragged scream ripping out of him _—_ ****

 **Malcolm! Just breathe. You’re gonna be ok -** ****

“It's not real. She’s not real,” he manages, as if saying the words can make it so. But there’s nothing to hold on to, nothing but her accusing eyes, her cold white hands reaching for him. If he could just see, if he could escape the dark for a second -

“I need - I need the blindfold off. Please, Byers, take it off. I need to see - I need to see!” But Byers doesn’t say anything. Byers has vanished like a puff of smoke, dissolving back into the endless black around him - the black inside the trunk. _He’s finally going to join her, she’s been trapped here for so long because he_ _left_ _her, left her to die in the dark, and now it’s his turn…_

 **She’s not there, kid. I swear to you. You're scared and hurting and that’s all catching up with you, but you need to keep on top of what’s real. You hear me? Focus, Malcolm. You’ve gotta focus.** ****

“Gil - “ his breath is sawing in and out of his lungs; he’s trembling all over. For a second he’s forgotten _how_ Gil’s talking to him, forgets the need for secrecy - he’s just grasping for the only chink of light in the dark. “Gil - help me - ”

 **Don’t talk, ok?** says Gil urgently, **just concentrate on your breathing,** and Malcolm tries; he’s dimly aware of the many reasons why his current panic is a terrible idea but he can’t quite grasp them through the fog that’s swallowed him whole. _If he could only_ _see_ _-_ ****

**I’m here, Malcolm. I’m right here with you. You’re gonna get through this and we’re gonna get you home, but first you just need to calm down and breathe. You can do that, I know you can. Nice, slow breaths...**

Malcolm breathes. Gil keeps talking to him, a steady stream of reassurance in his ear. He squeezes his eyes closed until he sees stars, until stars are all that he can see, and he keeps breathing. After a while - he has no idea if it’s seconds or minutes - he finds himself managing to take fuller, deeper breaths. Byers isn't holding him any more and he starts to truly _believe_ in his bones as well as his brain that the Girl isn’t _there._ As soon as he does, she fades away and he sags in relief.

Normally recovering from an attack like that means realising that he’s safe - _but he’s not._ There’s no Girl, but the promise of the box wasn’t just his imagination… _was it?_ Did he imagine the entire thing? Byers was there, locking his arms around him… it wasn’t his father, but it wasn’t all in his head _…_

Reality is almost as terrifying as his nightmares, but Malcolm forces himself to focus on it anyway. He can remember Byers’ arm wrapping around him from behind, like something out of a horror movie. The man’s breath tickling in his ear; fingers coming to rest snug against his throat; his other arm braced across Malcolm's chest, hand splaying out over his heart. Just remembering it makes him shudder. But it was _real_ … which means at some point, Byers must have let him go…and now, he has no idea if the man’s even in the same room. Malcolm just lost track of where the serial killer is.

So, yeah. He’s _really_ screwed up this time.

_Did Byers hear him talking to Gil? Is he still watching him now?_

“Ok. I’m done. I’m ok”. He says it for Gil, who's still listening in, still murmuring the odd soothing phrase into his ear, but he also says it to make his present situation seem more real. The hallucination has faded but he’s still unable to move, unable to see. There’s not much to stop him from sliding back into his own nightmares, and he can’t let that happen again.

 **Kid. Are you alone?** ****

Malcolm sucks in a deep breath. He’s been crying, he realises with a stab of embarrassment. He hopes Byers didn’t see. “Jason? Are you there?”

He can’t hear anything. No breathing, no creaking of the wooden floor… but he doesn't trust the silence. _He’s playing games with you._ Malcolm understands Byers now, and he’s fairly confident the man will be watching him. Waiting to see what he does next.

 _Is it a trap, to make him lower his guard? Does Byers suspect there’s someone listening in?_ He wishes he could know for sure. He wants so badly to speak to Gil, now he’s in his right mind again.

Gil must realise Malcolm has no way of knowing, because he speaks up again in his ear: **_That’s ok kid. Don’t say anything if there’s the slightest chance he might hear you. Just listen…_** ****

 **_We’re so close to finding you, Bright. We’ve got it narrowed down to just a few locations. One of them’s near a working train line. One of them’s bordering a dairy farm. One’s an old farmhouse, no modern fixtures or fittings. Train, cattle, farmhouse, got it? You hear anything that suggests one of those things, you let us know somehow. We’ll be listening in for anything he says. And if you think you can make him talk about any of it… give it a shot._ ** ****

Gil’s getting desperate, Malcolm realises. Byers is moving towards killing him faster than they expected. The realisation doesn’t fill Malcolm with the sort of panic he might expect. His emotions feel soft and worn from the intensity of the last hour, like all their edges have been rubbed off.

“Jason?” He tries again, not expecting an answer, but wanting to show Gil he’s still there. He's listening.

 **_I’m sorry, kid. I’m sorry to ask and I’m sorry we’re not closer. But we’re coming. I swear to you. It won’t be much longer._ ** ****

He needs to be stronger, for Gil. Gil, who’s trying so hard to keep him calm, while Malcolm lets his own demons get the better of him. “Ok,” he says, as steadily as he can manage. “I can do this. I’ll just... talk to myself. Do my daily affirmations. Only... I can’t remember what it said on the card this morning, so I’ll go with... I’m ok.” Strangely enough, saying the words out loud _does_ make him feel better. “I’ll be ok. Trust beats fear.”

He hopes Gil understands what he means. Right now, he has no other way to tell him.


	6. Out of Time

“Who’s Gil?”

The voice comes from behind him.

It’s disconcerting, but Malcolm was expecting Byers to pull something like this - to be hiding, watching him in the silence. What he _didn’t_ expect was to hear the man saying Gil’s name, and a chill sweeps over him.

“What?” He twists as best he can in the chair, towards the sound of Byers stalking slowly towards him. “Have you… have you been watching me this entire time?” He hopes he sounds suitably taken aback by the idea - _no need to let Byers know that Malcolm understands him better than he thinks_ _-_ as he tries to analyse the tone of the man’s voice. _Byers doesn’t_ _sound_ _angry… if he’d figured out about the earpiece, surely he’d be furious…?_

An open-handed blow snaps his head to the side. Malcolm gasps, blinking away flashes of light. “Our little body language experiment is over, Mr Bright. From now on, I ask you a question, I expect you to answer.” A hand lands on the base of his neck and gives him a warning squeeze. “So tell me… who’s Gil?”

“Gil?” Malcolm tries to sound bewildered. “He… he’s an old friend. Kind of a mentor, I guess. How do you… how do you know about him?”

“You said his name. You asked him for help.”

He does his best impression of surprise. Lying feels much trickier when he can’t see the other person’s face and for the thousandth time, he wishes he was free of the blindfold. “I don’t… I don’t remember…”

“I think you do.”

The floor creaks right in front of him and Malcolm swallows. He prays his anxiety is reading as the garden-variety ‘ _please don’t hurt me’_ kind and nothing more suspicious. “Well… I don’t,” he insists. “Before… That just _happens,_ sometimes, and… I can’t always control it.”

There’s a long silence. Malcolm’s heart is thumping so loudly he’s afraid it will give him away. He has no idea if Byers is buying what he’s saying. _Hopefully it helps that he clearly wasn’t in his right mind when he said Gil’s name…_

He flinches as the hand moves to grip his chin, tilting his face upwards. He feels breath ghosting across his face. A thumb brushes across the drying tear-tracks on his cheeks and it takes all his self control not to pull away as Byers _studies_ him. His feelings are written all over his face; in his clenched jaw, the tremble of his lip, the muscle jumping in his cheek - right there for Byers to read. He wishes he felt less frayed; more able to hide his emotions. _But it’s ok,_ he tells himself. It might feel exposing, but he can afford to let his some of his fear and anger show. What he _can’t_ afford… is for Byers to figure out he’s lying…

“You have, what... panic attacks?” asks Byers finally.

“Sometimes.” 

“And delusions? You talk to people who aren’t there?”

Malcolm feels a flush creeping up his neck. “I’m not _delusional_ ,” he says, unable to keep the edge out of his voice _._ “It was… a reaction to stress. The mind and body can respond to stress in a lot of different ways.”

“It's not exactly the usual response to stress, is it?” says Byers mockingly. Malcolm gives him his best _fuck you_ smile.

“I think it's fair to say this is an unusually stressful situation.” 

Byers chuckles. _Laugh it up,_ thinks Malcolm bitterly, _it’s not like you’re the picture of good mental health yourself -_ but then the hand on his chin is gone. He forces himself not to turn away now he's able to, and tries to mask his relief.

“I would have expected more self-control from a man in your profession.”

"What can I say. I'm full of surprises.” _Is that what Dani and JT are thinking, since they heard him fall apart so spectacularly?_ Will they look at him the same way - or see him as broken? Someone too fragile to function in their world?He pushes his shame down before it can sink its claws in any deeper. _Gil won’t judge him_ , he reminds himself. Gil at least understands why he is the way that he is…

Mercifully, Byers attention seems to have moved on from Gil. The silence grows, and Malcolm is just beginning to believe the interrogation might be over, when -

“You were talking about someone else, too. A woman.” The voice comes from his left. _Sit down!_ Malcolm wants to scream, _stop circling me like a goddamn shark —_

“Was I?” 

“Don't get smart with me. You know you were. Who is she?”

 _Perfect._ The last subject he wants to discuss with the man trying to psychologically torture him _._ “I don’t know her name. I just… I have nightmares about her, sometimes.”

“Why?” presses Byers.

“I don’t know,” he lies.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I don’t know her name.” This is probably one of the only times in his life that his terrible childhood could’ve actually been useful, he realises. It could be exactly the kind of distraction he could use right about now… _only there’s no way in hell he's sharing it with Byers._ The floor creaks off to his right - _Byers is moving closer again_ \- clearly not satisfied with Malcolm’s answer -

“I have my own name for her, though,” he offers, hurriedly. “I… I think of her as… the Girl in the Box.”

“The _Girl_ in the _Box_ ,” echoes Byers, and Malcolm flinches as the voice comes from directly behind him. _"_ The idea scared you. Of the box.”

“It would scare anyone, Jason," he says, as evenly as he can manage. "You were talking about burying me alive.”

“I talked about a lot of things. It was the box that made you cry.”

Malcolm glares into the blindfold. _The hell with this._ He’s had enough of pain and mortification; he’s a _professional_. He needs to steer things back on track; he takes a deep breath to steady himself. _Train, cattle, farmhouse,_ he remembers _. Go._

“Is that what happens next? You bury me alive?” Silence. “Will you bury me here… or somewhere else?”

“Why should you care, Mr Bright? You’ll be dead.”

“Maybe I’d like to know where I’ll be spending eternity,” Malcolm counters. “You killed the others here, didn’t you? And then you moved their bodies. That’s what you’ll do to me.”

 _Correct me, you son of a bitch. Show me how wrong I am._ He waits. Surely Byers can’t resist…

“I didn’t bring the others here,” _and there it is, right on schedule._ “Only you, and the first. The others died at the factory. You should consider yourself lucky… you got to set foot in here before the end. This is a special place to meet your end.”

‘Special _’ -_ that’s an invitation, a door to push on - but Malcolm’s attention has snagged on something else. “Wait… the first?”

“That’s right.”

“The first person you killed,” says Malcolm, his mind racing. “The start of the cycle… Who were they, Jason?”

 ** _Bright,_** ** _no_** ** _._** Gil’s voice comes in, low and soft. **_Stay on the house._** The unexpected surprise of Gil's voice sounding in his ear should give him pause, he knows that, but Malcolm can’t stop himself - not when he might have a chance to do something _useful;_ to be himself again, and not some helpless captive -

“We never found their body. Their family won’t know what happened. What did you do to them?”

“You'll find out, soon enough. You're going to be joining her.” There’s a heavy sound, something scraping across the floor. Even blind, Malcolm knows it's a shovel. 

**_***_ ** ****

When Gil finally gets the kid out of there, he’s going to kill him himself.

“Son of a bitch!” He strikes the table with the flat of his hand. _They’re_ _so_ _close…_ after the heart-clenching terror of nearly giving the game away, the kid has managed to turn things around. Bright’s been concussed, terrorised, scared out of his mind and and he’s _still_ been able to play this guy into opening up. But now…

Now it’s all going to be for nothing, because Malcolm is on Byers about the missing vic like a goddamn dog with a bone.

“The hell’s he doing?!” asks JT, incredulous. Dani looks like she’s either going to cry or punch something. Gil throws caution aside, and hits the talk button again. “Damn it Bright, stay on the house! You got him talking!” he hisses. _But when has the kid ever done as he’s told?_

 ** _So she’s here? Is this where you buried her body?_** pushes Malcolm, ignoring Gil’s voice in his ear. ****

 **She was the first, Mr Bright… and you’ll be the last. That’s all you need to know.** ****

**_You’re going to kill me anyway. Why not tell me the truth?_** Silence. **_Before, you mentioned a final request. Let this be mine. Jason, tell me who she was!_** ****

Malcolm sounds as desperate as Gil feels, and _of course_ it’s on behalf of this mystery woman and not himself. Byers couldn’t have engineered a more perfect situation to play on the kid’s sense of responsibility. This is the Girl in the Box all over again, a nameless victim only Bright can bring to light. Only _this_ time, Malcolm's sense of justice, his desire to ease some family’s pain, might have just cost them their best shot at finding him -

 **Why do** **you** **care who she was?** Byers sounds genuinely curious. ****

 **_Because… I_ ** **_care_ ** **_! A woman_ ** **_died_** ** _. Someone should acknowledge that. Someone should mourn her._** ****

 **And how can you mourn a woman you never met?**

**_Because... I know how she felt. At least a little. You brought her here, too. You killed her like you’re going to kill me. Please… you said you appreciated my honesty. I’m not lying. If I am going to be joining her then I just… I just want to know her name._ ** ****

There’s a pause. Bright's hope is infectious. For a wild moment, Gil imagines some part of Byers being moved by the profiler’s words. Of them igniting some shrivelled scrap of empathy in the man…

Then Byers laughs.

 **I’m not interested in your feelings for a dead woman, Mr Bright.** The sound of footsteps - the scrape of metal. **Mourn if you want. You have as long as it takes for me to dig you a hole beside her.** ****

 ** _No… wait!!_** Malcolm sounds stunned, blindsided. **_Jason, wait! Please, just -!_** ****

There's the slam of a door. Gil’s heart drops to the floor. _No \- t_ _hey need more time!_ He’s not sure if he says something out loud, or if it’s just instinct that make JT and Dani look to him, their own eyes wide with fear. He can feel despair clawing its way up his throat. Even if they got the drop on Bright’s exact location _right now_ , there’s no-one they could dispatch who’d have a chance of getting there in time.

He’s failed. He was too slow, too late and now…

“Bright’s gotta slow him down.” He blinks at Dani. She’s staring at the radio, a fixed look on her face like she refuses to contemplate any other outcome. JT rubs his mouth, looking vaguely nauseated. Gil can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s past believing they’re gonna pull this off.

Dani shakes her head and strides forward, and Gil watches as if in a dream. Acting, speaking, both feel beyond him right now; he feels like he’s free-falling into a nightmare. He watches Dani stab the talk button. “Bright? You there?” There’s a faint sound, like a sob. When Malcolm responds, his voice sounds tiny. Defeated.

**_Yeah._ **

“What the hell was that?” Gil feels his mouth drop open. JT looks at Dani like she’s grown a second head.

 ** _I couldn’t… I couldn’t get her name. I’m sorry._** The kid sounds _broken_ and it feels like something is shattering inside Gil, something that broke when Jackie died and that’s only just stitched itself back together.

“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to be _smart_ ,” snaps Dani. “He’s gonna come back in any minute and you need to figure out a way to make him keep you around. We can find you, Bright. You just need to buy us a little more time.”

Malcolm makes a quiet, choked sound. ** _But… the woman - the first victim -_** ****

“I could care less right now! You wanna find out her name, you gotta live - it’s that simple. You have to put everything else aside except for helping us work out where the hell you are, and distracting Byers. You got it?”

 ** _It's not gonna work. Dani…_** Malcolm’s breath hitches. ** _I screwed up. I let him get to me… I got this all wrong. I’m sorry._** There’s a pause as the kid draws a deep breath. **_I know this doesn’t give you enough time to find me... b_** ** _ut it’s ok -_**

“It’s not _ok!_ It’s the opposite of _ok._ And it’s not happening!”

**_But -_ **

“But nothing!” Dani sounds furious, swiping her cheek as she leans over the radio. “No one's better at this than you - I know you can figure it out. So hurry up and do it!”

JT is looking at Dani with a mixture of awe and incredulity. She glares down at the radio, waiting, as the silence stretches out.

After a minute, the kid sniffs, as if swallowing back tears. **_Is this... how you always talk to hostages? Cos honestly - it seems a little harsh._**

“Yeah, well. Suck it up, Bright,” Dani mutters, and the kid actually _laughs_. The sound is breathy and faintly tinged with hysteria, but it makes the fist gripping Gil’s heart unclench, just slightly. Dani’s face performs a weird contortion. There's a smile hiding in her words when she speaks again. “You just… do your thing, ok? We’ll be here if you need us.”

She takes her finger off the talk button and takes a step back before she looks up at them. “He’s gonna come up with something,” she says, as firm as she was on the comms link. “We just need to give him space to think.”

Gil nods. He sinks into a chair, dropping his head in his hands. He can sense the same tension and exhaustion rolling off his team in waves. The worst thing is that, without new evidence, without some breakthrough in the feverish activity of the officers outside the conference room, there’s nothing they can do but wait. There’s nothing any of them can do… except for Bright.

_Can Malcolm really buy them more time?_

He’s smart, he’s resourceful. If Gil had to bet on anyone, he’d bet on the kid. But Lord knows… he wouldn’t bet Malcolm’s _life_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this fic could become an absolute monster... it's growing beyond what I originally planned!


	7. Change of Plans

When Byers comes back, Malcolm knows what he has to do.

He’s not sure that it’s going to work. Almost as bad: he’s not sure that if it _does_ work, he’s isn’t going to end up wishing it had failed. But he knows he has to try. For himself, and his team.

Malcolm is now fairly confident that Byers’ ritualistic killings have been as much about _containing_ his urges as channelling them. The true purpose of the murders has been to indulge his sadistic tendencies - but _Byers_ needed to believe they served some greater purpose; that they were part of some elemental balance only he can understand. Now, Malcolm suspects that the very framework Byers created to justify his first four kills is holding him back. He wants to go further... but he hasn’t yet worked out how. That conflict makes him vulnerable to outside influence. To _Malcolm’s_ influence.

His mind feels clear. His emotions have receded, somewhere far away.

He listens to Byers re-enter the room. The man places objects down off to Malcolm’s right, things he must have brought back upstairs with him. Malcolm has no idea what. ‘Earth’ was the only murder where he and the team had no intel on the method of execution. His best guess is that what Byers said to him earlier was true: he plans to bury Malcolm alive.

The irony is even that though he’s managed to win the slowest death from Byers’ selection of horrors, it still won’t be slow enough. If Byers holds to his suggestion and _puts Malcolm in a box_ then his best estimate - in a scenario where he didn’t panic and burn through all the oxygen at record speeds - would give him around four hours. Unless Byers buried him with his jacket, he’d be out of range of the bluetooth radio, unable to feed any more clues to the team. Without new intel, they’d probably figure out his location just in time to exhume his corpse before it had completely cooled.

That’s the kind of fun mental math Malcolm has been doing since his conversation with Dani.

He clears his throat.

“Did you dig the grave?” ****

Byers pauses whatever he’s doing. “You’ve calmed down. That’s good.” There’s a tinkling, chinking sound; Byers is handling metal. _Chains? Nails?_ It does Malcolm no good to speculate.

“You’re going ahead with it, then. You’re going to bury me?” Silence. “I’ve got admit, Jason… deep down, I didn’t think you’d do it.” ****

Byers snorts **. “** Let me guess… you thought I'd spare you. That you’d _understand_ me. Change my mind.”

“No. I knew you were going to kill me. That’s been obvious since I woke up here.”And Malcolm makes sure that his voice is harder, more dismissive than Byers has heard so far; that there’s the faintest hint of contempt curling through it. “I just didn’t think that this would be how.”

There’s a creak; Malcolm imagines Byers turning to stare at him. There’s an edge to his voice when he speaks again. **“** You had your chance to choose. That’s passed.”

“Right. I had my pick. Earth, Air, Fire, Water - repeat.” He huffs out a breath. “I didn’t realise that was the limit of your vision. You’re gonna kill me the same way you killed that girl, and the next person the same way you killed Rosa. Over and over again, on some meaningless loop, until —”

Something clatters to the floor, and a second later Byers’ hand is gripping his face, fingers digging painfully into his jaw. He can’t stop his gasp of pain. “Don’t talk about things you don’t come _close_ to understanding! You don’t see the _balance!_ The greater pattern.” Malcolm feels the man's breath on his face, his nails scoring tiny cuts into his cheeks and a very small part of him floods with a fierce, vindicated pleasure that _he can do this; he might be hurt and scared and tied up and blind, but he can_ _still_ _push this man’s buttons and get him where he wants to go_. He makes himself wait, outwardly stoic, until Byers releases him and stretches out his jaw, wincing.

“I see that after only killing four people, you’re already back to where you started. Is that all part of the plan… or is that just you, out of your depth?” A slap snaps his head to the side and he can taste blood in his mouth. The pain feels like a tonic; the sting of it sharpening his mind, crystallising his understanding.

“You don’t _know,_ ” snarls Byers. “In your ignorance —”

“I know enough,” interrupts Malcolm scathingly. “I know _exactly_ what you’re going do to me, because it’s the same thing you did to that poor woman. I’ve seen it all before. You already completed the balance - four murders. That’s why I’m here! That’s what _brought_ me here. And now - you’re out of ideas. You’re going to repeat yourself.” The backhand across his cheek rings out like a gunshot. Malcolm blinks stars out of his eyes and gently probes a loosened tooth with his tongue, listening to Byers' pant. Listening to him move a half-step back, then stop again.

“You think... _you_ understand _me_?” hisses Byers. “That you can predict my work? When you couldn’t dream of seeing it’s true purpose… the true shape of things?”

Malcolm says nothing. He turns his face away, and tries to look as bored as he can manage with his head spinning. Blood drips down his cheek where Byers’ ring has cut him.

He can’t let any sign of his suspense reveal itself on his face, in his body language… all he can do is wait to see if his gamble has paid off. Because Malcolm’s pretty sure that Byers has a long mental list of things he’d like do to Malcolm before he kills him. He simply needs the right _nudge_ to let himself go. Byers’ pleasure in controlling and hurting others has escalated with every new kill - and now… Now he has a captive he’s itching to _correct._

Dani’s right. He just has to make sure he survives long enough for the others to find him... _w_ _hatever that takes._

“Testament.”

Byers finally breaks the silence. He says the word like it’s a secret finally revealed; like it was staring him the face all along. Malcolm holds himself still, unsure if it’s the most hopeful or the most chilling word he’s ever heard.

The floor _creaks_ in front of him. Fingers slide through Malcolm's hair and inexorably tilt his head back, _back,_ as far as it will go. He swallows… as Byers’ gently places his other hand across his exposed throat. The killer’s thumb presses down against the fluttering pulse below his jaw… and then… just _stops_.

That powerful grip doesn’t tighten. Byers’ palm rests there, exerting _just_ enough pressure to remind Malcolm how easy it would be to crush the life out of him. For the longest moment, he’s just _held_. He can hear Byers breathing, close above him. Feel those strong fingers curling gently around his neck.

Byers blows out a long breath. “You were a witness,” he murmurs. Malcolm daren’t reply, terrified of doing anything to trigger that hand into squeezing him any tighter. He can feel his pulse dancing under Byers' finger-tips; the man's palm pressing lightly against his airway. He’s never felt more vulnerable in his whole life. "In your arrogance, you saw, but you did not understand. Your death… will be _testament_.”

The hand _squeezes_ tighter for a second - a second where all Malcolm can do is wonder if he got this wrong again, as his whole world narrows down to that warm hand wrapped around his throat… and then the grip is gone. He shrinks in on himself reflexively, ducking his head, gulping in some steadying breaths as the door bangs open ahead of him. Byers’ footsteps disappear down the stairs.

Malcolm slowly lifts his head, sets his shoulders back. Makes himself count to ten before he speaks again, as composed as he can.

“So, the good news is… I’m pretty sure the whole ‘bury me alive’ plan just changed.” ****

**_***_ **

Gil sits at the conference room table, his eyes glued to the radio. Dani’s chasing an update on the feds, but JT stands in the corner, eyes fixed unseeing on the whiteboard covered in Malcolm’s scrawl. Despite his unfocused gaze, Gil knows he’s listening to Malcolm’s exchange with Byers as carefully as he is.

And yet, even though Gil is straining to interpret every nuance of their conversation, to extrapolate Bright’s condition from every new sound of violence that comes down the line, he still has no clue how to interpret what the hell Byers means. _Testament??_ Did he miss something, or this all just mind games, only discernible to Bright and Byers _?_ He sags with relief when Bright’s voice takes on that tone that means he’s talking to Gil directly.

 **_So, the good news is… I’m pretty sure the whole ‘bury me alive’ plan just changed._ ** ****

The kid sounds different. Part of it is confidence, like he’s slipped back into profiler mode, shed the despair of earlier… but there’s something breathless, almost manic, about his tone that makes Gil worried in a whole new way. “Bright, what’s going on? Are you ok? What the hell was that?”

 **_Nothing. It was nothing._ ** ****

Gil would bet his retirement fund the kid is lying. “You _sure_?”

 ** _Gil, I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me._** Bright uses the smooth, reassuring voice that Gil has long come to associate with outright lies about his wellbeing. Before he can press further, his brain finishes processing what he’s just heard. “Wait - good news? What’s the bad news?”

Malcolm blows out a sigh. **_Is Dani there?_** ****

“She’s close by,” says Gil, slightly thrown. “You want me to put her on the line?” ****

 ** _No… No, it's ok. Just - can you_** **_please thank her for me? Before, she kind of gave me a pep talk, and -_** ****

“You can thank her yourself when we get you out of there,” says Gil impatiently. “Tell me what’s happening.”

 ** _I_** ** _think_** ** _I've talked Byers out of burying me alive,_** says Bright, like he’s positing a theory on tomorrow’s weather. ** _The bad news… is that I don’t know what he’s going to do to me instead, but I’m hoping he takes some time to figure it out, so. That’s where we are._** He’s using the slightly glib tone he adopts when Gil pushes him into confessing a problem that he’d rather dismiss. It’s jarring, to have Bright sound so close to _normal_ , when the words he’s saying make Gil’s heart squeeze.

“Wait… You’re saying he’s changing his MO?”

 **_I’m saying… look, I had to work with what we’ve got, ok? I can’t stop Byers’ desire to hurt me - but I’ve tried to mould it. I’m pretty sure he wants to branch out in how he tortures and kills his victims. He wants to experiment, he just hasn’t given himself permission yet. Not to mention that he has a particular interest in subjugating me, because - as he sees it - I had the _ ** **_audacity_ ** **_to try and catch him. Only_ ** **_he_ ** **_ended up catching_ ** **_me_ ** **_, which has only reenforced his own sense of invulnerability, so I’m fairly sure he’s going to see this as a kind of poetic justice, or re-education, or—_ ** ****

The kid’s doing the thing where he starts talking at a mile a minute and expects everyone else to keep up with him. “Bright… Bright!” Bright falls abruptly silent and Gil pinches the bridge of his nose. “Poetic justice?” he tries.

 **_As Byers sees it… I tried to interfere with his work. He’s going to make me_ ** **_part_ ** **_of that same work. A culmination of it. A celebration._ **

“A celebration,” says Gil flatly.

 **_Basically… I think I’ve convinced him that burying me alive isn’t punishment enough._ ** ****

Gil takes a deep breath.

 ** _I didn’t say it was a great plan,_** concedes Malcolm after a beat. **_But hey. I’m still not in a box. And… maybe…_** his voice takes on a note of forced optimism, **_he’ll spend long enough deciding on what to do with me that this whole conversation becomes academic._** Gil stares at the speakers, trying to process what Bright is telling him, when the kid pipes up again. **_Gil, listen… is anyone else on the line right now?_** ****

Gil glances up at JT who instantly understands and steps quietly outside - out of earshot, but not stepping out of Gil’s eye-line by the conference room windows, in case he should be needed. Gil nods his thanks before hunching over, leaning closer to the radio. “It’s just the two of us, kid.” ****

 **_Ok. There’s something I need to say…_ ** ****

“Bright,” says Gil warningly, because he’s not gonna sit here while the kid _says goodbye._ To his instant mortification his voice is wavering. He grits his jaw - _he will_ _not_ _lose control, he owes Bright that much -_

 ** _No, it’s ok, I’m not… I mean, I wouldn’t even know how to start. What to say. And I mean, I hope you know -_** It's as if Bright senses Gil about to interject again, because he quickly steers himself back on track. ** _No - I just… I wanted to ask…_** ****

Gil waits, ready to grant pretty much anything the kid could possibly request of him at this point, including handing over the Le Mans and never lecturing him about his sleeping habits again. ** _If… maybe… I think someone else should take over the comms. I know someone has to be listening and, and…_** ** _thank you,_** ** _for staying with me, this long. But maybe… it should be someone… someone less…_** Gil stares down at the radio in stupefaction as Malcolm struggles. **_You guys shouldn’t listen,_ **he finishes lamely.

Gil counts to five and tries to make his voice as steady as possible when he answers. “You want me to go?” Malcolm doesn’t answer immediately. “Bright… kid… there’s no wrong answer here. If this would be easier for you without me on the other end of the line, we’ll get you someone else.” Even as the word’s are coming out of his mouth, he’s reeling from the idea - because this is the _last_ thing he expected to hear the kid say. Gil knows intellectually that he can stay briefed on the situation without having to listen in directly… but he never thought Malcolm would want him to go. _Not to mention he’s not entirely sure he’d be able to force himself to step away…_

“Bright?”

There’s silence for a few moments and just as Gil’s starting to panic he’s missed something, that Byers has come back into the room without Gil noticing, he hears a muffled sob.

 ** _No… I don’t want you to go._** **_I don’t, but I think you should. I don’t know what’s going to happen but I think it’s going to be… bad, and you shouldn’t have to… I don’t want you to…_** ****

“Kid…” He says it gently. “You don’t have to worry about me. If you want me around, then this is where I’m staying. I won’t go anywhere.” He can hear the kid sniffling, trying to get a hold of himself and Gil aches to be in the same room as him, to be more for him than a voice coming out of an earpiece. “Ok?”

 ** _Ok… I’m sorry,_ **mumbles Malcolm and Gil’s not sure whether he means for his initial suggestion or for the fact he’s crying now.

“You don’t have to apologise. You’re doing great, Bright. The way you’re handling this; the grace you’re showing under pressure; the way you’re keeping a cool head. The fact you just bought us more time… I’m so proud of you.”

Malcolm’s breath shivers, a tiny little hiccup as if he’s about to say something back -

And then Gil hears the sound of the door in the background. He makes himself take his finger off the ‘talk’ button and scrubs his face with his hand. His other hand clenches into a fist on his knee. He prays to God the kid’s first theory is right and Byers is gonna spend a while figuring out what comes next.

He sits back from the protective posture he’s unconsciously taken, half curled over the radio, and catches JT’s eyes on him through the glass window. His expression is unreadable and Gil feels suddenly self-conscious, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Before Gil can figure it out, JT is on the move, going over to where Dani is sitting at her desk.

Gil stays by the radio, unable to take his eyes off it, wondering what the hell he’s going to hear next. Against all odds, Bright's managed to buy them more time… _but at what cost?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the wonderful feedback so far on this fic!! I hope this next part isn't moving too slowly.


	8. A New Beginning

Thirty minutes later, and from the sounds coming out of the radio, Byers has been in and out of the room at least four more times. Malcolm’s attempts to lure him into conversation have all failed; it sounds like the man is moving stuff around from the occasional _thud_ or _clang_. Making preparations, for whatever he has planned. Malcolm has fallen more or less silent. Gil’s fingers itch to reach for the radio and check in with him…

JT clears his throat and Gil almost jumps in his seat. “Boss? Can I have a word?”

Dani catches JT's eye and gets to her feet. “I’ll go - grab some coffee. Call me back in, if…” she indicates the radio, her meaning clear: _if anything changes._ She hurries to the door with an almost guilty glance at Gil. _She knows what this conversation is going to be about_ Gil realises, as she steps outside…

JT blows out a breath, and comes to stand on the other side of the table, opposite to where Gil is sitting. “Boss… look, I hope I’m not out of line here… and I don’t know if this is something you need to hear, so… I’m just going to come out and say it. Are you sure this is working? You being on comms?”

Gil stares at him, wrong-footed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

JT looks uncomfortable. “I… I get it. It’s hard for all of us, but, you and Bright... he’s like family. And maybe... maybe that means it’s better, if you’re not the one listening in.”

 _First Bright, now his own team?_ “You think I _shouldn’t_ listen? To our best lead, on my own damn case?” JT bites his lip; Gil can practically read his doubts flashing in neon above his head.

“No one would blame you if you wanted - _needed_ \- to take a step back. Listening in… it makes it hard to stay focused, to figure out next steps -”

“Then don’t listen,” snaps Gil. “I promised Bright I’d be here.” JT sets his jaw in frustration, and Gil pushes his own anger down: he knows he’s not exactly objective when it comes to Malcolm.. _. he owes it to the man to hear him out._ He’s more level when he adds: “I appreciate your concern… but this link is an _asset_. It’s gonna help us find him. I’m not pretending this isn’t hard on all of us - but it’s not affecting my ability to focus.”

JT’s expression tells him he isn’t buying that for a second. He folds his arms and nods to the radio. “Fine. You think it’s affecting his?” Gil blinks at him in confusion. “Bright… is not in a good place right now, boss. He’s scared, he’s hurting, he’s not sure what’s real...”

“What exactly are you trying to say?”

“You said it yourself. This link is an asset… we can’t afford to turn it into an additional risk factor. I _know_ it’s hard not to reach out to him - but before, when he was freaking out about the lady in the box or whatever that was - he said your name, Gil! You talking to him - it almost blew this whole thing!”

For a second, Gil can only stare at him, struck dumb. The very _idea_ that his presence could be endangering Malcolm feels like a slap in the face. “That was a…. a calculated risk! To _calm him down!_ We can’t just leave him _alone_ out there, JT - we need to help him stay sharp -“

“ _We need_ to start thinking of Bright like we would any other hostage,” counters JT roughly. “You wouldn’t be worrying about comforting him if he was some John Doe. You’d only be thinking about finding him.” Gil’s shock turns to fury in seconds, but JT is already barrelling on: “We agreed on a strategy! _Your_ strategy! That we wouldn’t engage Bright unless we were 99% sure Byers was out the room -”

“I made a judgement call!” Gil glares at JT, incredulous, because _how can he not see that?!_ “You heard what happened - those were extraordinary circumstances - ”

“Were they?! Byers is a _sadist -_ Bright told us so himself. He’s gonna keep hurting Bright until we get him out of there. That kind of shit is gonna _keep on_ happening!” JT winces as soon as he’s said the words, a strange mixture of defiance and apology in his eyes as he sees them land. “Boss… you _know_ what’s coming down that radio isn’t gonna be easy to listen to. We can’t expect Bright to keep a clear head... to stop himself reacting while he’s being _tortured._ But if we keep on listening in... then we’re gonna _have to._ ”

Gil feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Whatever look he’s wearing on his face seems to knock the fight out of JT too. The other man exhales heavily. When he speaks again, his voice is soft. “All I’m saying is,… those moments when you most want to be there for Bright… to tell him he’s gonna be ok? _They’re_ the moments he’s least able to protect himself. He’s not thinking straight, Gil. We need to be careful _for_ him. We can’t give Byers a chance to figure this out.”

“I know that,” says Gil thickly. Suddenly he’s not angry anymore. He just feels a kind of despair… _because what if JT is right?_ Cruel as it feels to only be able to offer Malcolm words of support while he’s suffering, it seems even crueller to say nothing at all. Gil _hadn’t_ been able to stop himself when he’d Malcolm panicking, or before that, when he’d heard the kid screaming in pain… and of course, Malcolm hearing Gil’s voice had brought risks of its own. It had almost backfired spectacularly. _He's being sloppy;_ acting like a relative, instead of a detective, and he can’t afford to do that… _but how is he supposed to stop himself? Is he just meant to sit there and say_ _nothing_ _… when he can hear how terrified the kid is?_

“... Boss?”

Gil closes his eyes and takes a minute to gather himself. Finally, he nods. “I… I hear you. And…ok. If Byers is there, whatever he’s doing… you’re right. We can’t risk another slip up.” JT nods, guilt and relief mingling on his face as Gil meets his eyes. “But if Bright wants to talk and he’s alone… I’m gonna answer him. As long as this link holds, I want him to _know_ he’s got his team behind him.”

A knock at the door makes them both jump. The nervy cop from earlier steps back in. “It’s the FBI, Sir. They couldn’t trace the signal down to a specific address. But they have narrowed it down to an area that rules out two of the locations.”

JT’s at her side in a second, grabbing the print out and studying it. “Takes out East and West...”

Gil scrabbles for the papers on the table, for the map that marks the four potential sites they’ve identified. “Other two are both North,” he says. “Only a few miles apart. They're _sure_?”

The cop nods. Gil meets JT’s eyes, seeing the same hope blaze into life there, and the rush of adrenaline he feels flooding through him is dizzying. To be able to do _something,_ after this endless waiting - suddenly the exhaustion and frustration of the last day is falling away. Gil’s mind feels clearer than it has since this whole thing started.

“You -” Gil points at the guy from the tech team, currently hovering around the door, and feels something click back into place - “I need this,” he gestures to the radio, “ready to go; I need to know it’s not gonna cut out on the motorway, I need to know the battery can last from now until Christmas. JT, tell SWAT we’re down to two possible sites.” He looks to where Dani has appeared in the doorway, right on cue. "Dani, check in with Turner and the Feds. We need to know what their margin for error is, and if they can they narrow down the area any more. We’re taking this on the road.”

He grabs his jacket, the spark of hope burning hot in his chest. “Let’s go.”

**_***_ **

The door swings open for a fifth time and the footsteps come to a stop, right in front of him. Malcolm tries to tamp down his anxiety. He knows he’s pushed Byers into unfamiliar territory; he has no idea what to prepare himself for. He’s tried not let his imagination run too wild, but waiting and shivering in the dark for his captor to come back has made that particularly difficult. _Who knew that having an encyclopaedic knowledge of serial killers and their methods might not always be a good thing..._

Something hits the floor - _a bag -_ and Malcolm flinches, hearing the items inside bounce and clatter in a way that makes him think of his weapons collection. Byers walks out again and for a moment Malcolm thinks he’s got another reprieve while Byers goes to do whatever it is he does downstairs. Then he hears the heavy sound of something being _rolled_ along the ground at the bottom of the staircase.

_What the hell is that?_

The rolling stops. Byers starts moving up the steps again, slowly, grunting with the effort. The stairs are creaking wildly under the weight of whatever he’s carrying. Malcolm _knows_ he should wait and see what he’s dealing with. Speculating wildly, imagining all the horrific things Byers might do to him, only serves to torture himself and do Byers’ work for him. He _knows_ this… and the knowledge does absolutely nothing to quiet his racing mind.

Byers’ is at the top of the stairs now. He puts his burden down with a teeth-rattling _thud_ that makes Malcolm jump in his restraints. Whatever it is - _a barrel, an oil drum?_ \- starts rolling towards him, and Byers lets it come to a stop at Malcolm’s side.

“Jason,” says Malcolm, hating how high and nervous his voice comes out, “what are you doing?” He can hear Byers fiddling with the _something_ at his side, plastic catches snapping open, and _it could be a tub of liquid cement, oh god,_ _what if Byers has just decided to change the_ _way_ _he buries Malcolm alive? What if he stuffs him inside the barrel or forces it down his throat or —_

Byers grunts and hefts the thing up, towards him, straining with the effort and “wait,” gasps Malcolm, not sure what he’s trying to stop but convinced he has to stop it _,_ “Jason, wait, just wait a second -“

A deluge of freezing water slams down on top of him. It punches the air out of his lungs, stealing his voice, his thoughts, his breath. The force of it is stunning, battering him in an icy, roaring flood that whites out the world. His chest locks from the shock of it. His brain stutters.

The torrent peters into stream. Malcolm registers some of the bigger chunks of ice hitting his skin, a freezing numbness stinging everywhere, a cold so biting it _hurts_. The stream becomes a trickle. Dimly, he’s aware of Byers shifting at his side. The hollow sound of the empty drum being placed back on the ground.

His whole body has seized up. He manages to jerk in a tiny breath, with a sound like a whistle.

“Now you’re clean, we can begin.”

Malcolm manages a couple more wheezing, constricted breaths. It feels like someone has wrapped a belt around his chest and pulled it tight _._ He hears a rattling sound and realises it’s _him_ , shaking the very joints of the chair.

“Mr Bright.” Byers taps him on the cheek. He tries to jerk his head away but his muscles feel sluggish, uncoordinated. “Are you still with me?”

“… Y-yes.” His voice sounds tiny: a shallow, high-pitched gasp.

“How are you feeling?” Byers asks lightly, and Malcolm’s still too shocked to formulate the sort of answer he’d like to give to that question.

“C-c-cold,” he manages. Byers snorts.

“I should think so. The ice was thick on the top of that barrel.” Distantly, Malcolm wonders if he is required to comment on this. His faculties seem to have deserted him. All he can think about is the struggle to expand his chest, the cold stabbing into the parts of him that aren’t already numb. His skin feels raw from the slap of the water. He clenches his jaw and tries to assert some control over his trembling body...

He can hear Byers kicking away some of the chunks of ice surrounding him. “What’s that saying? Even a broken clock is right twice a day? You’ve been wrong about everything, Mr Bright. You don’t understand me. You could never hope to understand what it is I’m doing. But you have made me realise that you aren’t how I want my next cycle of work to begin.”

“W-what does that m-mean?”

“It means you don’t merit that role,” says Byers coldly.

“W-what does it mean f-for _me?_ ” asks Malcolm and Byers laughs, as if he should have known that would be Malcolm’s only concern.

“Don't worry. There’s still space for you in my design." He sounds cool and collected again... which means he’s probably already worked out his new plan for him _. So much for waiting it out_ , thinks Malcolm bleakly. "I told you... your death will be a testament to the four deaths that have come so far. That brought you here, to your final deliverance.”

“T-testament?” manages Malcolm.

“That’s right.” Byers is standing right beside where Malcolm’s sitting, and Malcolm has to stop himself from leaning towards the man, craving the warmth he can feel radiating off him. _God, it's cold._ The damp blindfold presses uncomfortably against his eyelids. Water dribbles from his hair down his neck and makes him shiver. His clothes are drenched, sticking to his skin —

 _Shit._ The microphone.

Is it visible now, below his shirt? Is it only a matter of seconds until Byers spots it? The blindfold kept most of the water out of his ears, but the mic might not even still be working…and just the idea that he might have lost his connection to the others makes his insides contract. If Byers left the room again, Malcolm could test it - but how can he make him leave? He’d send Byers off to get another barrel of ice water if that’s what it takes; he just needs him to leave the room for a _second_ …

 _No._ No, Malcolm has to focus on the bigger picture. It won’t matter that the mic is still working if Byers spots it and takes it off him. Malcolm needs to get more intel _now,_ before that can happen. This is all for nothing if he doesn’t use the time he’s bought to help Gil and the others find him. He blew it, before. _H_ e _can’t mess up again._

“J-Jason… c-could you t-take the blindfold off?” His lips feel clumsy; it takes an alarming amount of concentration just to push the words out. “I know I asked b-before. But I’d l-like t-to see. P-please.” He hears Byers exhale. “I w-won’t use it t-to try to profile you,” he lies, “if that m-makes any difference.” Rationally he _knows_ an appeal for mercy is unlikely to work on Byers, but when the man doesn't reply straight away, he can’t help hope from flaring up in his chest…

“The blindfold stays, Mr Bright. You started this in ignorance, stumbling in the dark. It’s only right that that it’s how you should go to your grave.” The words aren’t said maliciously, or with any softness to temper them. For Byers, they’re simply a statement of fact. Malcolm’s not sure what it is about the casual dismissal that makes him want to cry, after all the other consciously cruel things the man has done to him. There’s the _snick_ of a switchblade being flicked open and before his brain has made sense of the sound and its possible implications, Byers is moving behind him. He takes Malcolm’s hand - the right one, the one that received less damage in the fall earlier - and angles it painfully towards him.

“I’d hold still for this, if I were you.”

Malcolm’s hands are so numb he couldn’t make a fist even if he wanted to - but he bites his tongue, trying to figure out what it is Byers is doing. After a moment, pain starts registering itself - a deep, stabbing pain - in the palm of his right hand. It’s impossible to pull away - Byers’ own blazingly warm hand holds him still, digging in with the knife until Malcolm is gasping in pain.

“W-what are you d—doing?” Byers doesn’t answer, apparently too focused on the damage he’s inflicting with the knife to engage with Malcolm’s question. _Only… whatever Byers_ _is_ _doing, he’s not doing it to get a reaction_ , Malcolm realises. Byers is more focused on carving into him than savouring his pain… which means this is either practical preparation for whatever comes next… or something ritualistic. _Blood letting?_ _Is Byers going to keep on cutting him, until he bleeds to death?_ He’s fairly sure he can hear his own blood dripping on the floor. _This is not the time to faint,_ he tells himself sternly. _He needs to stop getting lost in speculation; stay on topic -_

“B-before… you s-said I was l-lucky to be here. But you w-won’t let me see. S-see what’s s-special about it.”

He can hear the smile in Byers’ voice when he answers. “You’re finally starting to ask the right questions, Mr Bright… maybe there is hope for you.”

The man finally drops his hand, which feels slippery and wet, sickly-hot where before it was freezing. It hurts _deeply_ , like Byers has stabbed him to the bone, and brings with it a horrible, roiling nausea… but Malcolm knows that if he throws up, he’ll be wearing his own vomit until he’s rescued or he dies. It takes so much concentration to will his body under his control that all he can manage in response is, “t-tell m-me.”

“The man who used to live here - he was my mentor. He understood the _balance_ of things. He grew things on the land. Knew what the rest of us all forgot.” There’s almost softness creeping into Byers voice, for the first time Malcolm can remember, but he can’t spare the time to analyse it. _Gil, tell me you heard that, please God —_

“W-we’re on a farm?” he manages.

 _“_ Your body will mingle with that same earth where he used to sow. But not yet.” Byers puts his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, as if in consolation. “That will be your final death.”

“Y-you can only k-kill me once,” says Malcolm, brain whirring, _because what does Byers mean; what's the new plan; how can he be testament to four completely different deaths?_

“Oh Malcolm.” The sound of his first name coming out of Byers’ mouth is _wrong wrong wrong,_ and suddenly something is pressing down over his mouth and nose - and _he can’t breathe._ “Wrong again. The number of times you die… that’s up to _me._ ”


	9. The First Lesson

Gil’s sitting in the back of the police van, speeding along the freeway, trying to fight the superstitious fear the radio will cut out now that they’re back on the road. He’s got the best headphones they could rustle up at the precinct, so he can still hear Malcolm below the roar of the traffic. JT and Dani sit close by, talking softly to one another - off comms for the journey, at Gil’s suggestion. He knows the link is a burden and a distraction, as much as a source of intel, and while he can’t bring _himself_ to stop listening in, he wants to free his team up as much as he can. All the same, he can feel their eyes being pulled to him every couple of minutes, trying to gauge the situation at the end of the line from his expression. He wonders what his face is telling them - because he’s having a hard time working out what’s going on. _Does Malcolm feel as in the dark as he does, about what Byers’ plans to do to him?_

 _Everything_ happening at the other end of the radio comes to him wrapped in layers of confusion and frustration. The kid’s questions, his wavering levels of terror and confidence, have let Gil build up a rough mental picture of what the hell Byers is doing to him. But Malcolm can’t exactly provide Gil with a running commentary, which leaves him to piece together the rest of it himself - from Byers’ elusive comments; the pattern of Malcolm’s breathing; the noises he makes without meaning to, to cope with the fear and the pain...

It took Gil a while to decipher what one of the newest sounds was, but now he’s figured it out: Malcolm’s teeth are chattering. Something else is rattling along with him when he shivers; it makes it hard to understand what Malcolm’s saying, or to hear Byers’ answers. _Like the kid wasn’t suffering enough,_ he thinks darkly.

He doesn’t know if the cold water is deliberate sadism from Byers or simply part of his ritual, and he doesn’t much care. He tries to tell himself that, cruel as it is, Malcolm’s gonna bounce back from a cold a damn sight faster than some of the other things Byers could be doing to him… but it’s hard to keep that in mind when Malcolm sounds so _small._ Scared, and shaken.

But the kid keeps pushing, and Gil’s barking orders the moment the word ‘farm’ has left his lips, a rush of fierce pride coursing through him. _Bright has_ _done_ _it - whittled their two remaining options down into one._ He leaves Dani and JT to put it all together, to work out the details, and he has to bite his tongue not to say anything to Bright over the radio; not to reassure him that he’s heard him, loud and clear. JT’s words from earlier are still ringing in his head. He won’t let himself do anything else that might put Malcolm at risk.

 _But now… they_ _know_ _where he is. The kid will be safe, within the hour._ The thought lights a warm fire in his chest. But he’s distracted from his relief when Byers speaks again.

 **Oh, Malcolm,** smiles the voice that’s created an almost Pavlovian urge in Gil to punch something. _When the hell did Byers start calling him ‘Malcolm’?_ And then —

It’s not a sound that tips him off, but an _absence_ of sound. Malcolm’s breathing spikes the second after Byers says his name and then - _nothing._ Gil frowns, listening closer. There’s the faintest sound, muffled, tiny. Then it’s gone. Gil’s been listening in for long enough to _know_ something’s off. Has Byers gagged Malcolm? Is the kid trying to keep a lid on some new torture Byers is inflicting, stopping himself from crying out?

“Boss," says JT, but Gil holds up a hand to cut him off. The silence has gone on for close to a minute now. Gil couldn’t put into words why his instincts are screaming at him that _something bad is happening…_ but what? 

**None of us truly understand what’s important, til it’s gone,** says Byers. Malcolm doesn’t reply. **I bet air seems just about the most important thing in the world to you right now, doesn’t it?** ****

The radio slips out of Gil’s fingers; he scrabbles to pick it up again, his hand shaking. He thinks he can hear another tiny noise, on the edge of hearing, and now he understands what it is -

Suddenly there’s a heaving gasp, so loud Gil recoils, as Malcolm takes in a painful gulp of air - and another, and another. Gil’s own heart stutters, _thank god, thank god,_ thinking that it’s over, that Byers was making some kind of sadistic point to Malcolm - but then the link falls silent again.

 **See how good that felt? How necessary? That’s the first lesson.** ****

More aborted, stifled noises - and now Gil can imagine it, God help him… how epic the struggle must feel for Malcolm, how tiny the resistance he can make. Byers’ voice is perfectly even: he isn’t even breaking a sweat. It’s terrifyingly easy, with his captive tied down, for him to cut off Malcolm’s air and the powerlessness of it all makes Gil want to scream...

“Boss, what’s happening?” asks Dani softly, but Gil can’t say it. He doesn’t dare speak and miss some clue that will tell him if this is _it_ , or just another sick game. _How long is it since this began -_ _why didn’t he look at his watch?!_ It must be close to three minutes…

 **Ah, ah.** And there’s another gasp, just one this time, before it cuts off again. **No passing out yet, Mr Bright. Not until you’ve learned...** ****

Gil’s hands are shaking. He can’t listen, even though he knows he _has_ to listen, _someone_ _has to listen, they need to know what’s going on over there._ He swore that he’d be there, that he’d stay on the line with Malcolm, but he can’t just _sit_ , and listen to… to…

Dani looks terrified to ask, but she tries to make herself anyway. “Is… is he -?”

Gil swallows. His eyes are burning, and his voice is frighteningly soft when he speaks, not like his own voice at all. He has to start the sentence twice to get it out past the tightness of his throat. “Byers… Byers is suffocating him.” Dani stares at him. He’s not sure what kind of expression is on his face. JT, body turned away as he talks on the phone with the with the SWAT co-ordinator, glances over at them both in concern.

Gil suddenly yanks the headphones off and leans forward, resting his head in his hands. He just needs a minute. A minute without listening to Byers torturing the kid and knowing he can do nothing, _nothing_ to stop him. Dani grabs them off him and starts listening in his place. After another minute or so, he feels her flinch.

“He breathed! I just - I heard him. He took a breath.” That confirms it; Byers is toying with Bright, suffocating him by inches. _That’s four or five breaths in what, three, four minutes? Byers is dragging it out, but the result will be the same - the result will be -_

Dani drops the headphones and looks at him urgently. “Gil, what did Bright say? Didn't he say we had more time?!”

“He thought so,” mutters Gil, “but… we’ve seen this MO before from Byers — he strangled Rosa…”

Dani shakes her head. “No. No, we have to trust Malcolm on this. He’s our guy, right? If he says this isn’t Byers’ endgame, then I believe him.” Tears have sprung up in her eyes and she blinks them back. "He’s not gonna let Malcolm die,” says Dani, and it sounds like she believes it. “This is messed up, it’s horrible, but… Bright just has to hold on, and so do we.”

And Gil wants to believe it too, that this is some new form of torture and not their time run out… but he knows that whether Byers intends to kill Malcolm isn’t all that matters here. _How accurate is one unhinged man’s control over life and death?_ How long can Malcolm last without proper access to air; how long til he needs serious medical assistance Byers can’t provide; until his brain is damaged from lack of oxygen?

“SWAT can be ready to move in on the farmhouse, if we give the order.” Gil forces himself to look up again as JT speaks. He has one hand over the receiver as he waits for Gil. It’s the go ahead Gil he’s been waiting to give since this entire ordeal started. “Tell them to hurry,” he says, hoarsely. JT flicks his eyes from Gil’s face to Dani’s and nods, turning away from them again as he returns to the phone.

Dani edges closer to him on the bench of the van, taking over the vigil at the radio, digging her nails into her palms as she listens. After a beat Gil takes a shaky breath and reaches out for another set of headphones. _He can’t let her do this on her own._ He’d hoped they’d be there faster, part of the operation that would rescue Malcolm, but like everything else so far they’re going to have to sit by and _listen_ to the raid instead. Soon, they’ll be able to hear shouts and footsteps over the radio, the sounds of the SWAT team subduing Byers. Ten minutes ago that news would have filled Gil with relief. Now the only question he can ask himself is, if despite everything, it will _still_ be too late…

He closes his eyes and lets all his concentration return to the soundscape of Malcolm’s imprisonment. He listens, side by side with Dani, counting the seconds from Bright’s last strangled gasp of air. This will all be decided, one way or another, in the next few minutes… The kid’s life now hangs on how many breaths Byers grants him in the meantime.

*******

Malcolm has been kept in the dark for so long - but now there are fireworks. Blazing reds and oranges exploding inside his skull. Vibrant streaks of blue, outspreading like butterflies’ wings. Sun spots opening and closing in front of him, like pools that you could drown in, and a clanging in his ears to match, louder and louder and louder —

He’s starting to float, up and away from the pain in his body, and that can only be a good thing _._ Below, Byers holds his head immobile, one hand pressing a cloth over his nose and mouth. Just a hand and a piece of cloth, that’s all, but it’s enough to make him feel like he’s ten again, powerless in a grasp he can’t fight. All that’s missing is the sickly scent of chloroform to send him to sleep - _and he would prefer sleep_ \- anything would be better than this tightrope dance on the edge of consciousness as his muscles burn and his brain sparks and flutters and his chest fills with fire…

He knows Byers is playing with him. Every breath he’s given is a taunt, a way to prolong the agony, but still he can’t help praying for another, his whole mind and body bending towards that need, _he needs to breathe, he needs air_. Maybe this time _, this time will be the time that Byers doesn’t let him have it_ … he’s thought it before, he thinks it every time the darkness starts to swallow him - but _maybe this is the time it all comes to an end…._

Blackness rushes in, a more profound blackness than any he’s known so far, and it doesn’t just shutter his eyes but fill his skull and his bones and all the hollow parts of him. He’s drowning in it…

And then someone is carrying him, lifting him up, and the blackness pulls away like a wave from the shore. He’s lowered down to the floor, hands cradling his skull like he’s breakable, like he needs to be protected, and the touch makes Malcolm melt… because he must be safe, _safe at last. They must have come for him._ He imagines the men and women who have come here to save him, filling the house around him; imagines their footsteps pattering like raindrops across the floorboards where he lays…

The ropes around his arms are loosened and fall away. A hand brushes his hair back from his forehead, and Malcolm leans into the touch. _It must be Gil_ , and Malcolm feels the weight of those warm, steady hands on his arms, rolling him onto his side and he reaches out for him, wanting him to take the blindfold off, so Malcolm can finally see his face. “Don’t leave me,” he tries to say, but it comes out so quiet. So quiet that the hands release him anyway.

“Malcolm,” says the voice - _only it’s not Gil’s voice_ , _i_ _t’s the voice from the darkness -_ and it fills him with fear. “We’re only just getting started. I’m not going anywhere.”


	10. Interlude

When Malcolm next wakes up, he’s crying.

The blindfold is still there, trapping most of his tears against his eyes. He must have been dreaming, but he can’t remember what he was dreaming about.

He’s no longer sat in that chair... but he doesn't think he's been moved very far. He’s on his side, mercifully lying on his uninjured arm, his ankles still bound. His upper arms are now free, his wrists loosely secured behind him with what feels like duct tape. He’d almost think Byers had taken pity on him and decided to give him a break from the merciless bindings he’d woken up in... but as the powdered-glass-feeling of his lungs reminds him, every time he takes a breath: Byers doesn’t have any pity.

A delicious wash of warmth is spreading over him, and he’s not shivering anymore. His eyes are crusted shut with tears under the blindfold, but even with his eyelids closed he can _sense_ the glow of the fire in the far corner of the room; hear the flames dancing in the grate.

He doesn’t know if Byers is still there. He doesn’t know why there’s a fire now, or why the harshness of rope has been replaced with duct tape, or the reasons behind his new position on the floor... but he knows if Byers sees he’s awake, the torture will start again, so Malcolm stays as still as he can. When he hears footsteps, he doesn’t even let himself tense. He lies limp, and warm, and nearly floating until the figure standing over him moves, fading away down the stairs, blessedly disappearing into the darkness.

***

They got the call thirty minutes after Gil agreed to the order. The raid had turned up empty.

They’re still in the van, now parked up outside the local police station, back doors wide open. JT sits beside Gil, and Gil knows he’s currently beating himself up - JT had been the one to find the farmhouse lead. As each new piece of intel came in - the radius from the factory, the radio signal, Byers’ own comments - it had looked stronger and stronger. They were all blindsided when the call came in that the house had been empty, long abandoned.

Gil still hasn’t processed it. The implications of what it means for Bright haven’t yet sunk in.

“It’s not your fault,” repeats Gil, his voice like gravel. “It was the best we had.” JT doesn’t respond and Gil puts a hand on his shoulder. “JT… you were right before. About me needing to take a step back. You’ve done exactly what you should have done, every step of this.”

JT clears his throat, swallowing back his grief. “I just… I don’t know what we have left, boss.” His voice is soft. “Every other lead, we ruled out.”

“We’re not giving up,” Gil says firmly, with the calm that’s settled over him since the call came through. (Well… since ten minutes or so _after_ the call came through. Gil can’t quite remember his immediate reaction to the news, but he remembers enough to know it wasn’t _calm_ ). He wills his voice not to shake as he carries on: “what you said before was right. Byers is going to keep torturing him. That.. that buys us time."

Dani speaks up from where she’s sitting near the doors. “They’re still looking at the precinct. Cross-referencing places Byers might know with the signal's broadcast zone. It could throw up something new.” She’s trying to be as positive as she can and Gil loves her for it. He nods.

"Right. And until they turn up something new... that house is still the best lead we have. So that's where we're going. Maybe there’s something there that can point us in the right direction.” It’s a slim-to-nothing hope - but _anything’s_ better than driving back to the precinct, which feels like surrendering to the idea they’ve lost Malcolm for good. “See if you two can start co-ordinating with whoever’s in charge out here. Might be we could use some local knowledge.” He watches as JT slowly gets to his feet. Dani waits for him, heading into the station at his side. It’s only when they’ve both gone that Gil lets himself slump, dread pressing down on him like a physical weight.

He's filled with a horrible restlessness again, now that they're not on the road, but he knows it would be foolish to head out before co-ordinating with the local police. He climbs out of the van, into the parking lot. Rain is falling gently; he shields the radio unit under his jacket. The battery hasn’t quit yet - tech had said with luck, it could last for 48 hours - but luck has been against them with everything else, and he still can’t quite believe it’s holding out. The unit feels like more of a talisman than anything else at this point - he hasn’t heard a peep out of Bright or Byers for well over an hour.

Gil refuses to contemplate what that might mean.

He stares out at the dense woods surrounding the car park, knowing Bright is _somewhere_ out there, maybe only a handful of miles away. It’s worse, somehow, knowing he’s so close. _To be within touching distance, and have him slip through their fingers…_ that would be more than he could bear.

**_… Gil?…_ ** ****

It’s so quiet, for a second Gil thinks he’s imagining it. ****

“Malcolm,” he breathes. He has to reach out and steady himself against the side of the van. “I’m here, kid. I’m right here.” There’s a long silence. Gil is about to say more, when the kid’s voice comes back, so faint. Barely a whisper.

**_I’m sorry, Gil. I think… I think I got this wrong._ **

“What are you talking about?” says Gil softly, his chest hurting from how small Malcolm’s voice sounds, how soft. “Are you alone, kid? Tell me what’s happening.”

 ** _He went downstairs._** His voice sounds slurred, groggy. **_I heard him go… but I don’t know when he’ll be back. Gil… Gil,_** **_I think I made a mistake. I don’t think I can do this._** ****

“You can,” says Gil. “I know you can, kid. It’s not gonna be much longer.” ****

 ** _I don’t want to do this anymore,_** whispers Malcolm, and he’s crying, quietly as he can. **_He’s gonna come back and I don’t… I don’t want to… Gil, I’m scared._**

“I know you are… I know you are, kid. But we… we’re on our way, Bright. We’re getting you out of there.” It doesn’t feel like a lie, because he can’t let himself believe anything else, and there’s no way in hell he’s taking away the kid’s hope. They both need to believe it, and Gil’s gonna make it true.

 ** _I dreamt you were here,_ **he says dazedly, as if he’s suddenly remembering. **_You saved me…_ **And suddenly his voice is scared again, like he’s sharing his darkest secret with Gil. **_I think Byers killed me… I think he killed me and brought me back._** ****

Gil’s hand that isn’t holding the radio curls into a fist.

 **_It was… it was bad._ ** ****

“I know, kid. But you made it through,” Gil manages. _What else can he say?_ He was there _, listening_ to the entire ordeal, and he didn’t do _anything_ to stop Byers, anything to change it. The knowledge stabs him in the gut and makes it hard to breathe.

He stares out at the woods stretching out on either side of the road, the little police station nestled in amongst them. “You’re gonna be ok, Bright. You’re stronger than he knows.” He doesn’t know what else he can say, but he makes himself sound as firm as possible, hoping the promise in his voice helps, just a little.

 **_Will you stay with me? You don’t talk… when he’s back, you go away…_ ** ****

He clenches his jaw, steadies his breathing, before he speaks. “I know kid. I’m sorry. But it doesn’t mean I’m not here. But… if Byers hears me, or if you…forget, or you get confused, just for a second, and you say something to me and he’s in the room… it gives us less time to find you.”

**_…Ok..._ **

Malcolm sounds so small, so defeated. Gil hates that he’s giving up without an argument. It’s the least Malcolm thing he can imagine.

It’s another form of torture, not being able to comfort him while Byers is taunting him, hurting him… but Gil can’t let himself weaken. Because whatever he hears down the line, however much he wants to reassure the kid, he’ll never forgive himself if he gives their presence away. JT was right: they’ve already gotten away with a slip up once, during Malcolm’s panic attack, and it was only the fact he was actively hallucinating at the time that helped them cover it. _A second time… they won’t be so lucky…_ ****

“Listen, Malcolm - you want to talk, you just say my name, and that will be the signal, ok? Just say my name, or Dani’s or JT’s, if you want to speak to them. But only when Byers is out the room. That’s how we can know it’s safe.”

 ** _Ok_ ,** says Malcolm, sounding a little more heartened. **_I’ll say your name._**

“We’re coming for you, kid,” Gil says it again, because he needs Malcolm to believe it, _he_ needs to believe it, “me and Dani and JT. You just… you gotta hold on a little longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think chapter length might start varying a bit more now, thinking about the story coming up... Will try to keep on updating regularly, but the size of updates might be less consistent! Maybe some longer chapters coming, and some little ones like this.
> 
> Anyway, short, but hope you enjoyed!


	11. The Second Lesson

Malcolm hears Byers moving around on the other side of the room.

He’s been lying on the floor for a while now, feigning unconsciousness, and it’s the closest thing he’s had to peace since he first woke up. He’s so exhausted, physically and mentally, he’s barely had the strength of mind to speculate about what might be coming next. Mostly he’s just been letting himself drift, savouring the slow, steady pull of his breathing, and miraculously, Byers has seemed happy to leave him to it. _Until now…_

Footsteps move towards him across the floor. Malcolm can _sense_ the man crouching down, can feel the heat from his body spreading over him like a shadow. Byers’ breath ghosts over his face and it takes a supreme effort to keep himself still and silent. He stays there for what feels like an unbearably long time. Then Malcolm feels his lips brush the shell of his ear.

“I know you’re awake,” Byers whispers, so soft. ****

If Malcolm reacts, he’ll confirm his deception. He tries to carry on breathing, the same gentle pattern, in and out. When Byers runs a finger softly down the side of his face he almost crumples, almost lets out a sob despite himself, but he manages to carry on, _still, in and out, in and out._ Byers chuckles.

“You know how I feel about your lies, Malcolm,” _and when did he become Malcolm, when did he stop being Mr Bright?_ “I will discipline you, if you continue.” ****

The word _discipline_ sets all of Malcolm’s alarm bells ringing and no amount of self-control can stop the flush he feels instantly rising to his cheeks. He knows that if the man above him decides to inflict some new humiliation on him - alongside the inevitable pain Byers has planned out - there’s almost nothing Malcolm can do to stop him. He wants to buy himself time, yes - but there are limits. “Jason,” he mutters hoarsely. “I’m awake.” ****

“That’s right,” says Byers approvingly. “We live and we learn, Malcolm. This is a time of great learning for you.”

 _Fuck you,_ thinks Malcolm. Out loud he settles for, “Please could I have some water?”

Byers ignores him, and seizes him by the arm - the arm injured from his fall earlier, and Malcolm hisses in pain - as he’s dragged into a slumped sitting position. “Time to get up now. You needed to recover from your first lesson, so I let you rest. You stopped breathing.”

“You stopped me breathing,” Malcolm mumbles, not unreasonably.

“And I breathed life back into you.” Byers gives him a proprietary pat on the cheek, and Malcolm fights back the urge to vomit. The room is already spinning around him, even in the dark, and the idea of Byers forcing air into his lungs, of that mouth pressing over his own, makes him feel nauseous. “Are you ready for your second lesson?”

“Do I get a choice?”

Byers slaps him once, around the face. The blow isn’t particularly hard - _it’s_ _the way he’d cuff a misbehaving dog,_ thinks Malcolm bitterly - and then he’s being hauled upright and dragged across the floor. _Towards the fire…_

‘Air’ has been done. Next was _fire, fire was next, oh god oh god_ and Malcolm starts twisting in Byers’ grip. He can’t fight, or even try to run with his ankles bound - all he can do is writhe and buck against the hands pulling him inexorably over the floor… until Byers drops Malcolm into a chair. “You’ve got your energy back,” he says, sounding amused. Panting, Malcolm sits in the chair and tries to understand what’s going on.

“What… what’s the second lesson?”

Byers moves behind Malcolm. A second later, and something is being pulled taut around his upper body and fastened behind him. _A belt_ , he realises: he’s being _buckled_ to the chair-back. There’s the ripping sound of duct tape, and Byers starts winding it around his knees, pinning his legs together. Malcolm’s mind whirs as he tries to figure out Byers’ next move. The tape and the belt will stop him from running or fighting back just as much as the ropes did… but they’ll also make it easier to physically manipulate Malcolm, to move him around. _Is that deliberate?_ The man’s movements are purposeful - he has a plan and Malcolm has _no idea what it is…_ He yelps as hands grab his ankles and yank them forward. He tries to kick out, as much as he can with his knees and ankles bound together, but Byers simply grips him tight and lifts his feet.

There's the creak of Byers taking his customary seat opposite. Malcolm finds himself with his legs stretched out in front of him, his bare feet in Byers’ lap. The pose is awkward - if not for the belt drawn tightly across against his chest, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from toppling to the floor. Malcolm waits, unsteady in the chair, unbalanced in every sense. He has no clue what’s about to happen here, and it terrifies him.

The man’s hands curl gently around his toes.

“Jason… I can see now, I was wrong before. I don’t understand. I don’t know your plans.” He swallows, trying to sound humble rather than terrified. “I’d like to, though. If you’ll tell me.”

By way of answer, something digs into the sole of his right foot, and Malcolm shouts in surprise and pain: “Ow!!” Whatever it is - _it feels like a knife, or the world’s sharpest stick -_ digs in deeper, cutting the tender skin as Malcolm tries to wrench away. His voice wobbles along with the movement of the blade, as he tries again. “Are you - _ah! -_ stopping me - running away?” _Maybe Byers plans to let him up, to untie his ankles at some point?_ That could be promising; Malcolm’s pretty sure he’ll be able to make himself run, no matter how much his feet hurt. Byers huffs out a distracted laugh.

“I don’t think that’s going to be problem,” he says, adding a new slash. “No, Malcolm. First the mark… then the lesson.” He lifts Malcolm’s foot higher, sending the chair he’s sitting in teetering back. The hands against his skin feel tacky with blood. _He’s admiring his handiwork,_ realises Malcolm - Byers has _carved_ something into his skin. His foot stings viciously; he’s already wincing at the idea of placing it back on the floor.

“What’s... the mark?” Byers doesn’t answer, but Malcolm suddenly finds he has a pretty good idea. He pushes on, dogged. “Talk to me, Jason… You gave me a mark before, didn’t you? You cut my hand, and then…” He finds he can’t make himself say it, can’t bear to return even for a second to the sense memory of coarse cloth and Byers’ own flesh pressing against his mouth, slowly suffocating him. “That was for Air, wasn’t it? And now… now this is the second mark.” His voice wavers as he asks, “is it for Fire?”

“Fire is the second lesson,” says Byers, and Malcolm is instantly _so_ much more aware of the heat being cast on his skin, the quiet crackling of flames in the grate. _Byers said he would be testament to four deaths. Four deaths - four elements._ He should have seen this coming - _stupid, he’s been so stupid just_ _lying_ _there, resting on the floor!_ He hadn’t questioned the appearance of the fire when he woke up - he’d just been grateful for its warmth. _In his defence,_ he reminds himself, _he had been recovering from asphyxiation._ The man’s already nearly killed him once with his bare hands...

What’s Byers going to do this time? Hold him down over the flames?

“Fire,” he echoes, as if saying it will help him gain some control over it. “So… what’s the lesson? What happens next?”

“So impatient, Malcolm. So many questions, and yet you don’t see how you are lost. Your own blindness keeps you in the dark.”

 _Your blindfold keeps me in the dark,_ he wants to yell. “If I’m lost, then why not tell me what’s ahead? Don’t you want me to learn?”

“Of course. But the lessons aren’t about words, Malcolm. They’re about life and death. Are you ready?”

“I can’t answer that if I don’t know what’s going to happen.” Byers lowers Malcolm’s feet to the ground again - _and yep, that hurts; his foot must be soaked with blood_. “What are you going to do? Are you going to set me on fire? Like Mae?” He tries to keep his voice steady, as if he’s engaging in an intellectual debate and not a conversation about whether or not _burning him alive_ constitutes a good plan of action. He’s doing his best to keep his questions calm, and the _total indifference_ with which Byers is ignoring them makes him want to scream. “Because… if that is the plan… if you do that, Jason, then this is all over. No more lessons. No more elements. No _balance_.”

Unless… _what if the plan is to set him fire and then_ _put him out_ _?_ whispers a voice in his mind _._ He’d be left unrecognisable; in unimaginable pain; _wishing_ he was dead while Byers carried on with his work…but he’d still be technically alive enough for whatever the man wanted to do next. _Stop it,_ he scolds himself. Speculating gets him nowhere. That _can’t_ be Byers’ plan.

 _If it is_ , whispers the same small voice, _then Malcolm should have let Byers bury him. He should have_ _climbed_ _into that box…_

Byers chuckles. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s a fact, Jason,” he says, and he tries to keep the desperation out of his voice, tries to only convey _certainty_ and _reason_. “Fire doesn’t work like that. You won’t be able to bring me back, like... like you did before.”

“You forget who you’re talking to,” says Byers, but there’s no anger in his tone - more amusement, like he’s in on a joke that’s gone way over Malcolm’s head. “You think I don’t know how fire works?” The floorboards groan as Byers suddenly moves across the room. “Would you like me to show you?”

There’s the sound of something _swishing_ , something liquid in a plastic container. “I used petrol on the girl,” Byers continues. Malcolm’s mind stutters in fear, because _Byers is about to douse him with petrol, just like poor Mae, and then —_

“Wait, wait, just - _listen to me_ -!”

“I poured it on… and then I watched her burn.” There’s the sound of a plastic cap being unscrewed. “Do you know what your problem is, Malcolm?”

“I’m sorry,” he gabbles, “I’m sorry about before, but don’t do this, Jason, please don’t do this —“

“Your problem… is that you just can’t stop trying to outsmart everyone around you.” A slug of liquid slops onto Malcolm’s chest - splashes onto his chin. His words die in his throat as he chokes on terror. “You presume to know me, Malcolm. To know my methods. And look at what it does to you -” He can barely understand what the man is saying through the panic swamping him. Byers dashes some more of the liquid in his face and he splutters - but it’s tasteless, odourless. Part of his mind is already registering the absence of the smell of petroleum -

“I never said I was going to set you on fire, Malcolm. That was a story you told yourself.” Byers pours more of the liquid over him, a thin stream pattering onto the crown of his head, sliding down the back of his neck. “But you did ask for water,” Byers adds, the smile in his voice unmistakable. “Aren’t you going to say ‘thank you'?”

The vice that’s gripped Malcolm’s heart and lungs loosens but it still takes him several seconds to make sense of what’s just happened. He’s been splashed with water _. Water, that’s all_. He hears Byers taking a sip from the bottle before he returns it to the corner. He realises he’s panting; flushed from panic and the heat of the fire.

“You bastard.” He hates that it comes out more like a whimper than a snarl, but he can’t formulate anything stronger right now. He feels stupid, and pathetically grateful, and weak with the aftermath of raw terror. Byers doesn’t even bother to hit him for the insult - he simply puts his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders and squeezes.

“Now then… left or right?”

Malcolm doesn’t answer and Byers grips him harder. “I said, left or right?”

“For _what_?! I can’t choose if I don’t understand the question!”

Byers doesn’t ask a third time and instead works on severing the tape around Malcolm’s wrists. Malcolm tries to put up a token resistance, but Byers simply grips his injured arm to keep him compliant. A moment later and his hands are being re-tied to the arms of the chair. _The last chair didn’t have arms,_ a clinical part of Malcolm observes - the part that isn’t frantically trying to work out what the hell Byers is up to next. Byers must have a specific plan he’s following to have engineered this new set up, rather than working things out as he goes...

His right arm now taped down, Byers moves on to his left - this time taping his wrist so his palm and inner arm face upward. Byers moves on to his elbow, until his forearm is pinned out, immobile along the arm of the chair. Malcolm tries to give it an experimental wiggle. _Nothing._

“You might want something to bite down on,” says Byers, “but we’ll see how it goes.”

“What are you going to do?” His mind is already filling up with new possibilities. “Why don’t you just _tell me_?!” There’s a clanking noise, a _hiss_ from amidst the spitting of the fire and the _not knowing_ is unbearable.

“Sssh,” murmurs Byers, and sure enough Malcolm trails off, as he feels the scorching hot blaze of _something_ being held up in front of his face. Even with his eyes covered, he can sense it _glow_.

“Oh,” he says faintly.

The tip of the burning poker floats along beyond the blackness of the blindfold like a firefly. He feels its heat on the skin of his forearm seconds before it touches down.

Then he’s _screaming._

When Byers removes the poker and returns it to the fire, Malcolm’s _still_ screaming, and gulping in air, and his arm _hurts oh god it hurts_. Sweat pours off him - he’s wrenched his injured arm, he’s clenched his bleeding hand into a fist, he’s pounded his slashed foot against the floor and none of it matters. Everything is buried under the high-pitch agony radiating from the burn. He’s trembling violently all over, apart from his arm which he can’t shift a millimetre away from where Byers has taped it down -

“Oh god that hurts, that hurts, oh my god that hurts,” he chants, “oh _shit,_ no no no stop - “

“You’re going to have to pace yourself,” says Byers, from somewhere miles above him. “That's only the first part of the design.”

“No, no, stop it, don’t, _don’t fucking touch me!”_ he shrieks, all of his caution and reason burned out of him. The poker comes down again, landing with a hiss and the smell of his own flesh burning, and Malcolm screams so loud the entire chair rocks with it. He wrenches back and forth, desperate to tear himself away from the metal that’s blazing and burrowing a hole through his skin. “Get it off, get it off _get it off me_ you son of a bitch stop it, stop it!”

Byers lifts it off again and Malcolm is a physical wreck. He says something to him but Malcolm can’t focus on the words - they’re as pale and insignificant as the rest of the world right now, as faded and muted as everything that isn’t the shrieking pain of his own flesh. Once he would have been embarrassed to scream and cry like this with his team able to hear - with Gil able to hear, _Gil, who he’s always wanted to make proud of him_ \- but his pride is just an illusion that’s melting away under the hot glare of iron as it comes down a third time.

 _Where are they where are they they’re not coming for him, they’re not coming, he can’t take any more of this —_ the poker’s lifted away and Malcolm’s not sure if he’s still screaming, screaming for help or screaming hatred at Byers - or if any sound is still coming out of him at all, if it’s his voice or the pain that’s so _loud…_

“Control yourself,” sneers Byers coldly, “you’re meant to be a professional.” He brings the poker down a fourth time, and Malcolm promptly passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone still reading and commenting on this story!


	12. Dead Zone

“Sounds like your boy’s in a bad situation,” says the Sheriff sympathetically and Dani has to bite her tongue - cos yeah… this guy has _no idea_. “My Deputy can drive you over there. You’ll want an off-road vehicle… I got a truck, and a couple of jeeps, and I can give you one other officer, if the extra manpower will be of any use to you.”

Dani shakes her head, trying not to let her impatience seep into her tone. “Thank you, but we have teams on stand-by if we find discover his location. This is just to see if there’s anything that might have been missed.” _Because the house in the woods_ _fits ,_ _s_ he thinks for the hundredth time since the raid turned out to be a bust. _It fits the broadcast zone; it fits Byers’ story; it used to be a farm…_ she feels _cheated_. Strangely, the fact it _should_ have been right is the thing that’s now giving her hope. The place _must_ be part of Byers’ story, somehow. It’s the only lead they have left pointing them towards Bright - it’s gotta give them _something_.

The Deputy - a sweet-looking kid who looks barely old enough to have his badge, let alone be second in command - scurries into the office as Dani ducks out. She’s itching to be back on the road. Gil and JT are waiting for her in the break room, along with the Tech Support Guy who showed up, as if by magic, only minutes after they did. The radio had started dropping out in short bursts not long after they pulled up at the station. Back at the precinct, Gil had looked ready to rip the head off the guy who suggested they wait another thirty minutes before setting off in order to make some adjustments - ‘optimising their set up’ hadn’t seemed quite so urgent when the signal was clear and they’d thought they were closing in. But the tech team must have been co-ordinating behind the scenes ever since: the new guy appeared right on cue, muttering about signal boosting and dead zones. They’d reluctantly handed over the radio and she’d left Gil and JT watching him work, as tense as if he’d come from bomb disposal.

The link had been quiet when she’d left them. Dani keeps trying to remind herself that’s a _good_ thing - it means Byers is occupying himself with something other than their profiler. Still, she hadn’t been able to help wishing for _some_ sign of life - just enough that she can convince herself that Bright is still _there_ , after listening to him being slowly suffocated _._ Gil had told her that he’d spoken to Bright since then, that he’d been ok - or at least, he’d been conscious, and known where he was and what was happening. But still… just to hear his voice, she thinks, would be some kind of comfort right now…

But there’s still no sound from Bright coming out of the radio. The only noise in the room comes from the Tech Guy, quietly tinkering away. JT gives her a strained nod as she enters, and Gil doesn’t even look up at her. He’s curled over in a chair at the far end of the room, hands knotted in front of him. Dani can read the tension radiating from every line of his body and she feels a lurch of fear in her chest. “What’d I miss?”

“We’ve lost audio,” grits out JT, and Dani realises the radio isn’t just quiet, it’s _dead_. Suddenly the mood in here - the fact that Gil is practically vibrating with impatience - makes a lot more sense. “Apparently, Collins here can fix it,” JT adds, with an attempt at reassurance. He nods to the Tech Guy, currently huddled over the radio.

“Nothing to worry about,” Tech Guy - _Collins_ \- says brightly. He’s sitting at a table in the middle of the room, bits of kit and plastic littering the work surface around him. “We anticipated you might face some issues, so hopefully this _should_ shore up the signal.” He fiddles some more with the radio unit, seemingly unfazed by three sets of eyes boring into him. “It was bound to happen sooner or later, so it’s actually pretty good timing that it happened right when I got here. Better a few minutes silence now, than you lose audio completely later down the line. Even in that scenario, we have a back up unit back at the precinct tuned into this frequency. The only risk of a total comms blackout is if the battery dies at the other end -”

“How long til it’s fixed?” Dani demands. Collins gives her a far-too-cheery smile.

“Any minute now.” Dani meets JT’s eyes again, and sees _somethin_ g in his expression beyond the frustration and solidarity she was expecting to find _. She’s missing something…_ there’s an extra layer of tension in the room, one she can’t quite figure out….

“Did anything happen on the radio? Before it cut out?” _And there it is -_ Gil’s shoulders hunch a little more. There’s a horrible pause before JT answers.

“Byers was speaking with Bright,” he mutters. “Nothing useful. Just… mind games.”

 _No wonder Gil looks like he’s about to lose it._ Dani has no idea what ‘mind games’ means, but she’s willing to bet it was something cruel and fucked up, based on everything they’ve seen from Byers so far. _Did the broadcast cut out while they were still talking?_ Dani isn’t sure she wants to know the answer to her next question, but she can’t stop herself.

“What was he saying?”JT hesitates. His eyes flick down to meet hers and the heaviness in his gaze makes her heart sink.

“Something about fire,” he mutters.

Collins finally straightens up from from his position by the radio: “Ok… all done!” He fiddles with something and there’s a jarringly loud burst of white noise that makes Dani flinch. The static squeals and shifts, into —

_shrieking, blood-curdling sound -_

raw, terrible noise that screeches across her nerves, makes her heart slam against her ribs. It takes her several seconds to understand it as a _human_ sound, a sound that’s _coming from Bright_ rather than just an assault on her senses. He’s _screaming,_ uncontrolled, frenzied, desperate, and it’s the worst thing she’s ever heard. JT - deadpan, weary, understated JT - actually _flinches_ ; he meets her eyes with a look of pure horror and Dani stares back at him helplessly, knowing they’re thinking the same thing - _because_ _how_ _can that be Bright?_ _What the hell is happening to him, to make him sound like that?_

Collins looks horrified, his gaze darting nervously between the three of them. “I… I can mute it,” he stutters. The scream is tapering off and Dani prays whatever is happening to Bright is over - but the sound doesn’t stop, it _contorts_ , into a sobbing wail -

**_No, no, stop it, don’t, don’t fucking touch me!!_ **

Dani fights the urge to cover her ears and manages to drag her gaze over to where her boss is sitting, bolt upright in the chair. His hands are white-knuckled on the table -

 **_get it off get it off me you son of a bitch!_ ** ****

and she becomes aware of how _still_ Gil is sitting, transfixed, consumed by the frantic, agonised chanting coming out of the radio. Gil’s eyes don’t even _see_ her as she stares at him, and Dani wishes she couldn’t see him either, so she wouldn’t have to remember this look on his face - _like he’s been stabbed in the gut, and the knife is_ _twisting_ _—_

 **_stop stop please stop, please!_ ** ****

Gil’s chair pushes back with an abrupt screech. For a second she’s worried he’s going to grab the radio and break it in his bare hands, destroy it in a moment of madness and then ( _thank god they won’t have to listen_ ), then their best source of intel will be _gone_ - ****

 **_\- please - please! Oh god oh god -_ ** ****

“Turn it off,” he gasps. He manages to wrench his gaze off the speakers and he looks at Collins, naked desperation in his eyes. “Turn it off!” But Collins just _stares_ at Gil, his mouth hanging open….

Another scream rips out of the speakers and Gil almost staggers.

“He said, _turn it off!_ ” snarls Dani, _because he can’t take any more of this, none of them can_, and it’s _wrong,_ having Bright’s pain broadcast in this way - echoing around this bland, impersonal room, in front of this total stranger. She pushes Collins out the way, reaching for the radio - ****

 **Control yourself,** sneers that voice, and Bright screams again - a howl of pure pain -

Before it all suddenly _stops_.

The abrupt silence is almost as jarring as the sudden introduction of screaming and Dani freezes in her tracks. “What-?” breathes Gil. His eyes finally meet her own, scared and impossibly wide. JT presses his hands together and Dani _refuses_ to think what she knows he’s thinking…

They hear soft movement from the radio… _because whatever just happened, Byers is still there_, _of course_ …

… a rustling sound, loud enough that they can all tell Byers is leaning in close to the mic...

There’s a soft moan, and Dani sees Gil close his eyes at this confirmation that Bright’s still with them. _He must have passed out_ , she realises. _Is Byers watching Bright right now? Touching him?_ Just the idea of the man standing so close to him while he’s unconscious makes her skin crawl…

Then, the creak of the floorboards. The gentle bang of the door. Byers has gone.

Gil turns away.

Dani feels the tension drain out of her in a _whoosh_ , leaving her light-headed, her legs weak beneath her. Collins steps tentatively towards her and she barely has the energy to look up at him. He waits for her silent permission before gently taking the radio out of her hands.

There’s a tiny _click_ as he slots something into the headphone jack, and he holds out an earpiece, just like the one Bright must be wearing. There’s a three more scattered on the table. “Wireless,” he says timidly, “for, uh… when you’re on the move…” She takes it and looks at it heavily. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He hurriedly packs up his kit and rushes out of the room, as quickly as he can.

JT glances over at Gil, still standing with his back to the rest of them, under the pretence of looking out of the window. “I’m gonna… debrief with Collins,” he says after a beat. He sounds as exhausted as Dani feels. She gives him a nod and he leaves, closing the door pointedly behind him. Leaving the two of them alone.

“…. Gil,” she says, almost timidly. He doesn't answer.

She moves slowly towards him, draws up at his side, and feels an actual physical pain pierce her chest as she sees the tears in his eyes. “Gil...“

He shakes his head, as close to falling apart as she’s ever seen him. He brings up a hand to cover his mouth but he can’t hide the shuddering breath he draws in and Dani reaches out blindly, grabbing his other hand and squeezing it hard. She can feel his shoulders shake beside her and looks away, down at the floor, trying to give him some privacy without leaving him alone.She stares down at her boots as they blur against the carpet, biting her lip to force her own tears away.

It’s several minutes before he trusts himself enough to speak and when he does, his voice is scratchy... as if _he’s_ the one who’s spent the last few minutes screaming at the top of his lungs. “I’m sorry.” She turns to face him in surprise - but he isn’t looking at her. His gaze is fixed on the middle distance, his expression haunted. “You and JT… you shouldn’t have to listen that. It’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair on you either, boss,” she points out gently. Gil sighs.

“I’ve been wondering… about whether I should take myself off the investigation. Hand things over to somebody else. Even though I think the only thing worse than working this case would be _not_ working it... I know that I... I’m too close.” Dani feels a chill creep over her, at the idea Gil might pull the plug, because she knows exactly what he means. This is hell, but she doesn’t think she could stand to go home and just _wait. “_ But I _can’t_. I can’t just _hope_ that someone else finds him. We’ve been chasing Byers for weeks… _no one_ understands this case like we do, and I… “ Gil swallows, his voice close to breaking, “I can’t leave him alone out there. But I… _I don’t know_ … if I can listen and still… keep things clear. Something’s gotta change Dani. I knew it would be hard, but I - I never…”

“We’ll figure it out,” she promises. “There’s always a way."

“The hell’s Byers doing to him?” He turns to face her at last and the look in his eyes is so _lost_ it makes her want to cry. She’s never seen that look in his eyes before. But she remembers a time when _she_ was lost, and how steady Gil was then. She wants to be that person for him now - even if it’s a lie, even if she’s as scared and out of her depth as he is.

“Bright’s tough,” she says, finally. “He’s gonna be ok, boss. We’re gonna get him back.” Her eyes fall on the silent radio. “And until we do - I’ve got an idea for how we’re gonna make this work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't originally planning on writing this scene but changed my mind at the last minute about seeing the team's side of things... so technically I guess this is a bonus chapter! Hope you enjoy :)


	13. Distractions

The first time Malcolm swims back into consciousness, he can hear Byers moving about on the other side of the room. More to distract himself from the white-hot agony pulsing from his arm than anything else, he croaks out the first question that comes into his mind.

“What does it look like? The burn?” After all, if he survives this, he’ll be stamped with whatever design Byers’ has branded into his skin for the rest of his life. He might as well know.

“It isn’t for you, Malcolm.”

“It’s my arm.” Malcolm licks his lips. His throat is so dry - he keeps sweating, and he doesn’t have any water left to lose. “I need water.” 

“Not yet.”

“Then when?” he demands. He’s exhausted and filthy and dehydrated and _disfigured,_ and now he’s pretty sure he’s feverish too. He’s _done_ being on his best behaviour, planning and worrying and second guessing every move and only getting punished for his efforts.

“You’re forgetting your manners,” observes Byers, an edge creeping into his voice,

“Manners don’t seem to be getting me anywhere."

“Are you trying to provoke me, Malcolm? Because that would seem like a remarkably bad idea.”

“I’m not trying to provoke you,” he snaps recklessly, “I just want a _drink!”_

There’s a pause... and then a swishing sound, the _glug_ of liquid being poured, and Malcolm wonders if the man has actually listened to him for once, if he’s actually going to grant his request…

“This wound needed to be cleaned,” announces Byers. Malcolm feels something dab at the corner of one of the burns and lets out a shriek.

“ _Ahhh!_ No, it’s fine, just leave it,” he pants out, but Byers’ hands are on his arm again and the second swipe of the damp cloth over his burned, livid skin makes him howl. _“No -_ it doesn’t matter if it gets infected, you’re going to kill me anyway!” he gasps, his voice high-pitched from agony, “stop it! Just _stop, stop it, don’t touch it_ - _! You son of a bitch, just leave it!!_ ”

But Byers doesn’t listen, of course, and within a few seconds, he’s fainted again.

***

Malcolm’s fuzzy on if it’s minutes or hours later when he comes round a second time. For a long while, all he’s aware of is the feeling of fire scourging his arm. All his other hurts are lost beneath it. It’s enough to make him want to faint again, enough to make him retch. He thinks he might be moaning, but it’s hard to tell through the rolling fog of pain and nausea.

He drifts for a while, somewhere between awake and asleep. He has what might be daydreams, or feverish hallucinations. In one of them his mother is stroking his forehead. That one is his favourite. In another, his father watches him from his cell, eyes full of disappointment. In another, he’s climbing into bed, but his restraints are gone, and matches have been scattered over his sheets.

Something cuts through the daze. A sound, close by. Malcolm manages to focus, and recognises the now-familiar sound of Byers coming to sit in the chair in front of him. He flinches instinctively. “Jason,” he says —

Only he doesn’t. All that comes out is a mumble. It takes a moment for him to realise why: his mouth has been sealed shut, with what feels like a strip of duct tape. He struggles against the swell of panic the realisation brings, and works to consciously control his breathing. _He was breathing fine before he woke up,_ he tells himself, _so he can breathe now_. He’s just not used to the sensation of being gagged.

“You were moaning while you were unconscious,” Byers says, conversationally. “It was distracting.” And then the man's hands land on the wrist of his mutilated arm. Malcolm can’t pull away, can’t tell Byers to _stop_ whatever new, terrible thing he’s about to do, but he tries to anyway. He makes a stifled sound of protest, bracing himself for more agony…

And then he realises - _Byers isn’t hurting him._ It feels like… like he’s applying some kind of salve to the burns. It doesn’t cancel out the pain, which is relentless and still has him shaking in its grip, but it does _soften_ it somehow. Coolness spreads across the wound, blunting the agony, and Malcolm has to stop himself whimpering in relief. It’s hard to connect Byers’ touch now with the hands that smothered him earlier. It’s disorientating, being soothed gently, by the man who just branded him like livestock.

“We think of a brand as a man-made thing - a _human_ design,” murmurs Byers, as if reading his mind. “But when it comes down to it, it’s always just a sign of fire.”

Malcolm still doesn’t even know what the design _is_ that’s been seared onto his skin, and just the idea of it makes him nauseous, but he’s willing to talk about whatever Byers wants to talk about if it means the tape comes off. He grunts, having no other way to communicate that _he’d like to be able to speak, please_.Byers doesn’t acknowledge the sound. He just carries on dabbing something cool onto the skin around the wound.

 _Does Byers mean to leave him like this?_ He swallows back his panic at the idea and makes another muffled sound, more urgent this time, trying to signal that the tape can go, that he’s fully conscious again.

Nothing. Byers carries on his work in silence. 

Malcolm’s heart squeezes. It’s bad enough not being able to see, but if he can’t _talk_... Byers has rendered him completely useless. _He can’t even make an argument for the gag to be removed,_ he thinks helplessly - but when Byers speaks again, he realises the man already knows what he's been trying to say.

“I don’t like to be distracted, Malcolm,” Byers murmurs. “Now that you’re awake again, the question is… if I take the tape off, will you continue to be a distraction?” Malcolm shakes his head. “Hmm,” is the thoughtful response. Byers snips through the duct tape pinning down his left wrist and starts wrapping his arm, bandaging it in light, stretchy fabric as Malcolm tries not to cry out. After a moment, he carries on talking, as if thinking out loud. “You see…. your tone _…_ your tone has become _disrespectful,_ Malcolm. I can’t help thinking that perhaps this is for the best. Perhaps I shouldn’t let you talk at all.”

Malcolm can’t stop the tears that prickle suddenly at his eyes, or the furious flush he can feel burning under the tape - because he’s an _idiot_ for not understanding right away that this is deliberate, this is _punishment_. The gag has nothing to do with how loud or how quiet Malcolm is; it’s just more of the same calculated sadism. He insulted the man sitting in front of him and in response, Byers has _reduced_ him… _f_ rom someone who could argue and reason, to someone only capable of grunts of pain, of inarticulate signals of distress. The unfairness of it makes him want to scream.

“You’re getting agitated.” Malcolm feels Byers’ hand land on his shoulder and forces himself not to wrench away. He sniffs, trying to swallow back tears. _Don’t panic,_ he tells himself. _Stay calm and quiet._ He mustn’t give Byers any new reason keep him silenced, and he mustn’t reveal his distress. He’s fairly sure that if Byers realises how unnerving Malcolm finds the gag, it will become a permanent feature of his imprisonment.

He tries to sit patiently, and not to focus on how claustrophobic it feels to have his thoughts locked up in his head like this. _Worse than the blindfold._ Even when his questions backfired, being able to ask them - being able to plan them in his head - was some form of distraction, some illusion of control. _Without a voice, his training and his brain won’t count for anything._ He’ll have no way left to try and make Byers see him as a human being.

Byers finishes treating his arm and tapes his wrist back to the chair-arm. “There. I’m going to give you some alone time, Malcolm. You can use it to think about your behaviour, while I prepare for our next lesson.” He gets to his feet and Malcolm moans as he hears the movement, the only plea he can make with the tape still on. If he’s left like this, he’ll have no way of speaking to Gil while Byers is out of the room. _Please,_ he thinks, _please, just take it off…_

He flinches when fingers roughly pinch the skin on the back of his hand. _Testing for dehydration._ A second later, the fingers slide under Malcolm’s jaw, taking his pulse again, before coming to rest on his forehead. The man above him sighs and a moment later, he peels off the tape. Malcolm’s heart leaps.

“Open wide.” He feels a bottle appear at his lips, and a cool wash of water on his tongue. He’s so parched he can barely swallow, but he laps at it greedily. He can’t have had more than a few sips before the bottle is taken away again.

“Thank you,” he croaks, trying to sound suitably humble, trying to hide the depth of his relief at the fact he can speak at all. “Thank you, Jason. I’ll stay quiet, I promise —” Before he can even finish, the man’s hand is squeezing his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Two pills are dropped on his tongue. “Swallow.”

“Wha -“ he asks, thickly, but Byers cuts him off.

“ _Swallow.”_ Malcolm does so, grimacing at the bitter taste. _He’s training you well,_ says a voice in his mind, a voice that sounds horribly like his father. _Teaching you obedience… like a dog. Aren’t you being a good boy?_

Byers’ hand forces his jaw open again - Malcolm assumes to check the pills have gone - when something is suddenly being stuffed inside his mouth. It’s soft and springy and clean-tasting - _the same stuff that Byers just used to wrap his arm: bandaging._ He tries to spit it out, tries to shout in protest, but the sound is swallowed as fabric fills his mouth, more and more of it until he’s choking as Byers pushes his mouth closed around it. “ _Ssh_. I understand you want to talk. You want to distract me… and you want to be distracted, from your own fear, and pain. But pain is part of the process, Malcolm. You shouldn’t be distracted. It should be your focus.”

This time, Byers doesn’t just use a strip of duct tape; he wraps it tightly round Malcolm’s head, layers thick, from beneath his nose down to his chin. Half-smothered, Malcolm can barely make a sound in protest - he sucks in a panicked breath through his nose and tries not to gag. “If you keep on behaving, we’ll see about taking the tape off again. But I can’t make any promises.” Byers finishes applying the tape and grips him by the chin to inspect his handiwork as Malcolm struggles to breathe. “There now… how’s that?”

“Fuck you,” Malcolm tries to say, and what comes out is so choked and tiny that the other man chuckles.

“That’s better. I’ll try not to be too long.”

There’s the sound of the door closing behind him and Malcolm is left alone, fighting to draw breath, locked in silence and darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a short update today, but more coming soon! Thanks to everyone who read / commented on the last chapter :) That was quite an intense one... this one is a little calmer before things start cranking up again


	14. A Quiet Period

For a little while, Malcolm just _screams._

It’s cathartic, after all, and no one can hear him - the screams boil up in his chest like lava from a volcano, only to be silenced by the gag. It's a way to finally let out every obscenity, every truth he’s imagined hurling at Byers since he woke up in this godforsaken place. A way to let out some of the fear and frustration. Byers was right - there’s nothing here, in the dark, to distract him from his own pain and discomfort. He can’t see, can’t speak, can’t move, can barely breathe. There’s a lot for him to scream about.

He can’t manage it for long. He’s exhausted and it’s hard to get enough air. Malcolm can’t tell if it’s the lack of oxygen or just his growing collection of injuries that has him permanently light-headed. The darkness swarms around him, and even sitting quietly in his chair, he’s horribly dizzy.

What he’s learned from his latest predicament - aside from the fact that Byers is an even more perceptive torturer than he'd thought - is that the man’s own sense of invulnerability apparently extends to Malcolm, now that Malcolm is a part of his work. Byers hasn’t been back to check on him; like it hasn’t occurred to him that leaving his prisoner like this is an incredibly risky idea. If Malcolm passes out, or vomits, or panics, or simply pays less attention to his breathing than he currently is, there’s a very real risk of him choking to death while Byers is busy downstairs. Simply sitting quietly has already given him two near misses; he swears he can feel the fabric tickling the back of his throat, and the last deep breath he risked nearly sent him gagging.

 _It would serve Byers right, if he ended up choking to death and ruining his plans,_ thinks Malcolm bitterly. And he’s so _thirsty…_ The cloth seemed to soak up all of the moisture in his mouth within the first couple of minutes. Already the few measly sips of water Byers gave him feel like a distant dream. With the fire still lit and his arm still burning and his head muffled under layers of cloth and tape, Malcolm’s starting to feel deliriously hot. He wonders if the pills Byers gave him were to fight the fever, or something else; something to keep him docile or disorientated. Whatever was in them, they’re certainly not making him feel any better.

 _How long will it be til Byers comes back? Will he give him water when he does?_ The thought of staying like this for much longer makes him feel like he might come undone. At least when Byers is there, Malcolm can give in to the luxury of panic. Right now he can’t lower his guard for a second; he has to banish his emotions and his exhaustion somewhere far, far away. _He can’t lose control._ He’s down to one working airway, after all; if he starts hyperventilating, he’ll pass out, and if he passes out, he’ll never wake up again.

“Gil,” he tries to say for about the fiftieth time, but of course what comes out is unintelligible, a barely-human noise. “JT. Dani.” They won’t speak to him unless he speaks to them first; Gil told him so. It’s another cruelty of his situation that makes him want to cry. Which is exactly the reason he can’t let himself dwell on it.

 _Maybe he’ll see Gil in person soon. Be able to speak to him face to face._ The idea comforts him. _Any moment now, they could be here. Like in his dream. This will all be over._ Gil told him when they last spoke that he only had to hang on a little longer...

 **Oh my boy… I wish I could agree with you.** ****

_Oh no._

Malcolm squeezes his eyes closed beneath the blindfold. He bites back a groan. _Please , no. _This is the last thing he needs —

 **“A little longer.”** His father’s voice chimes in, clear as bell beside him andeven though Malcolm can’t see him, he can somehow _hear_ the air-quotes. **I mean… it’s nice. Comforting. _Vague._ A distinct lack of _detail,_ wouldn’t you say? If I didn’t know better, I’d say our Lieutenant Arroyo was stalling. He doesn’t know where you are.** ****

“Shut up!” says Malcolm fiercely - or tries to, anyway. He hears Martin scoff at the barely-there noise that comes out.

 **I’m only saying what you’re thinking, Malcolm - there’s no point getting snippy. You love to put your faith in that man, but he’s not your family. You can’t rely on him to save you. Not when it comes down to it.** ****

It's an auditory hallucination: he knows that. This is probably the fever talking, or whatever was in those pills - either way, he needs to think about _anything_ else. Anything but Dr Martin Whitly. Block out the voice andfocus on his breathing. _Now is not the time to get suckered in by his father’s mind games…_

 **Except they’re _your_ mind games, my boy. You’re the one who’s brought me here… because you know you need me.** ****

_I don’t need you,_ hisses Malcolm - because if he can’t get rid of the hallucinatory voice, then at least in the privacy of his own head he can respond in complete sentences. _Gil’s gonna come for me. He’s listening in, right now. He can’t talk but that doesn’t mean he’s not here._

 **You** **can’t talk. Gil is choosing not to. Big difference. He _says_ it’s to keep you safe, but let’s be honest… how much worse could things really get?** ****

Malcolm feels his heart clench in his chest. What’s that supposed to mean? _Why else would Gil be keeping quiet?_

 **Oh, well, I can’t know _that,_** demurs Martin, in a tone that strongly suggests he _does._ **I just think it’s… suggestive. I’m sure Gil’s busy; chasing leads, busting heads and all that, but if you ask me… he doesn’t want to have to sit there, listening to you whining.**

The words feel like a slap. _I’m not_ _whining_ _-_

 **I’m not blaming you, my boy,** Martin interrupts soothingly, **it’s** **a trying situation. But _maybe…_ maybe Gil doesn’t want to be reminded of his failures. Because if he was going to find you, it seems to me like it would have happened already.** ****

Malcolm can feel the sob building in his chest and pushes back against it. _He can’t cry._ Crying means he won’t be able to breathe.

**That’s right, there's no point getting worked up. And who needs Gil anyway? Maybe it’s time you listened to Yours Truly, for change. Given I’m the one who’s actually shown up.**

_You are the only person I can think of who could actually make this situation _ _more_ _painful -_

 **Except that y** **ou** **_brought me here_ … because you need my help.** ****

_No,_ decides Malcolm. This is further proof he’s _out_ of his right mind, if anything. Because of all people, why would his brain choose Dr Whitly? His sociopathic, serial killing, son of a bitch father? _Like things weren’t difficult enough…_

 **It makes perfect sense!** argues Martin. **You’re tired and hurt and that bump on the noggin can’t be helping things… but you know that _I_ can help you get back on track. Give you some perspective, instead of more platitudes. Stop you from making things… even worse.** ****

_I thought you just said they couldn’t get much worse?_

**Oh, Malcolm. Things can _always_ get worse.**

That, at least, is something they can agree on.

There’s a sudden sound from downstairs: someone moving around. Malcolm freezes, straining to hear if Byers is coming back. He’s becoming skilled at interpreting the creaks from below - there’s been nothing else to focus his attention on, after all - but a moment more and he realises Byers has settled back down to whatever he’s doing. He can’t stop himself groaning around the gag - maybe he’s going to be left like this for _hours_. The idea makes him want to weep.

 **See what I mean? You’re letting your emotions run away with you.** ****

_Right,_ Malcolm responds bitterly. _I’m being oversensitive. The situation’s really not that bad._

 **Enough!** and Malcolm flinches, _he actually flinches_ from his father’s voice in his head. **You need to _focus_. You’re letting Byers rattle you... and the man’s a third rate intellect at best.** ****

 _He’s going to kill me,_ Malcolm points out. ****

 **Only if you let him.** **Yelling, crying, _begging…_ honestly, **sniffs Martin **. Fear is getting the better of you, my boy, and if you want to survive, that needs to _stop_. You’re panicking and losing sight of the bigger picture. I expected more.** ****

Malcolm glares into the darkness, awash in that familiar combination of fury and shame that his father never fails to inspire. _If you have any brilliant ideas for what I should be doing instead, I’d love to hear them…_ ****

 **Well for starters: stop wishing the serial killer downstairs would hurry up and rejoin us. The longer he’s out of the room, the better.** ****

_I don’t want him back torturing me, I just want to be able to breathe!_ _It’s unbearable, being trapped like this -_

 **Oh, get a hold of yourself!** snorts Martin dismissively. **You want to talk about being locked up? When was the last time you saw me and I wasn’t chained to a wall?** **A bit of discomfort is infinitely preferable to whatever he’s got planned for your next session. You think that’s going to be _more_ fun?** ****

 _... Probably not,_ he has to admit.

 **Exactly. But whatever it is… we can handle it. It’s the grand finale we want to avoid. Now, I know you’re disappointed you can’t speak to your team, but if you ask me, that’s for the best. **Let** them concentrate on finding you. Y** **ou** **need to concentrate on surviving this, instead of spending every free moment chattering away to Lieutenant Arroyo.** ****

_I’d hardly call it chattering_ , thinks Malcolm sullenly, but he suspects Martin might be right again. The rare moments he’s been able to check in with Gil have become his lifeline - but he _should_ be spending his time trying to think his way out of this, not asking his team for reassurance. But the radio link feels like the only thing that’s keeping him sane; some hope to cling on to, amidst all the terror…

 **Now you’re just being sentimental. Do you really just want to sit around, waiting for everyone else to save you?** ****

_It’s not like I have a whole lot of other options here -_

**And a** **nyway,** Martin breezes on as if Malcolm hasn't spoken, **now you have** **me** **to talk to.** **Who needs the NYPD?** he finishes smugly.

 _Right. And what would you suggest?_ Malcolm hates that beneath the sardonic tone of his question, there's a part of him that is genuinely hoping that his father will save him... will come up with some brilliant idea that will actually make this all better. _H_ _e's not even real, _he reminds himself sternly _,_ _this is a hallucination, his mind turning in on itself..._ his father isn't actually _here_ - ****

 **How about we try a bit less self pity and a bit more _strategy?_ Your first objective, when he comes back: get that gag taken off. If you can’t talk, you’re just like any other hostage. Fodder. It’s a waste of your talents.** ****

_The other victims weren’t_ _fodder ,_ he thinks, appalled -

 **And you can stop that mindset, as well. _‘The other victims,_ ’** tuts Martin. **You’re not a victim, you’re a Whitly!** ****

 _That’s not been my name for years,_ snaps Malcolm.

 **It might not be on your badge, but it’s in your blood.** **G** **rowing up with me as a father was the perfect training for this situation! It made you smarter than some second rate serial killer like Byers - so it's time to start acting like it. **

_How?_ He hasn't been able to raise so much as a hand against Byers since he woke up here. What does it matter if he's smart or not... when he's so utterly _helpless?_

 **Pull yourself together, boy. We both know that if you hadn't managed to talk your way out of it, you'd be dead in a pine box already. But here you are, still alive! That was smart. Now stop getting distracted by _feelings_** _-_ Martin's voice positively drips scorn - **and be smart again.** **Get back to slowing Byers down.**

 _His father’s right._ Malcolm has let the pain and the fear unmoor him; he needs to remember his training. He can’t just sit here, trying to survive Byers; he needs to keep on analysing him. Maybe he can somehow get the man talking - because what he needs is _time._ However painful, however slowly it passes, every second of suffering is a second longer that he's _alive_ , that he might be able to turn things around, that rescue might find him. Maybe he can somehow delay the third lesson that Byers has planned for him...

The third lesson. The idea of it fills him with dread. It will be water next. _Dad… he’s going to drown me…_

 **It certainly seems that way, my boy,** says Martin, sympathetically. **But he’s already resuscitated you once successfully - that bodes well.** ****

 _He killed me,_ thinks Malcolm numbly. _And now... now he’s going to do it again._

 **Now now, don’t get despondent.** **I didn’t come here to get you down in the dumps, I came to give you a pep talk!** And just for a second, Malcolm imagines he can see his father's face, smiling in that way that makes it so easy to forget exactly who he is, what he’s _really_ capable of. **Anyway, one thing I know for sure, Malcolm… killing you is harder than it looks.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is a bit different...! After he popped up briefly in the last chapter, I couldn't resist a cameo from Martin. Hope you enjoy!


	15. Patience

It had been back when Bright was sobbing, begging Byers not to burn him, that JT had come to the realisation: there was no way that they could keep listening to this and still operate effectively. When they’d got the radio back up and working again, and Bright had been _screaming_ in agony, he’d thought Gil was going to lose it, and he hadn’t felt far behind him. JT already knows that once they track down Byers, he’s going to have a hard job holding himself back.

Whatever Dani and Gil had talked about inside the station, it seems like they’d reached a similar conclusion. They’d all figured out the new system in the back of the jeep, with Gil looking like he might shatter into pieces at any second. The local deputy would take over at the radio, but the second Bright asked for any of them, he was to let them know - _no matter what,_ Gil had insisted. The deputy would keep a record of everything he heard, in case any of it suggested anything helpful in terms of Byers’ plans or Bright’s location. For the entire journey out to the farmhouse, JT had struggled to take his eyes off the deputy’s face, stealing glances at the notepad where he wrote down whatever he was hearing. Gil had stared out of the window as Dani drove, and hadn't said a word to any of them. 

Now they’re here - close to the site of the failed raid. Their own sweep of the house didn’t turn up anything useful. They’ve moved on to conducting a door to door - except the doors are half a mile apart in most cases, ‘neighbours’ out here being ‘any other property within ten square miles’. He can see Gil waiting on the veranda of the next house on their list, looking like he might combust with impatience. They’re waiting for the old dude who lives there to make it out of bed and answer their questions. It’s a fragile hope that he’ll be able to give them anything - if it wasn't the right farmhouse, then JT’s not sure what good being here does them - but Gil is following _something_ here. Maybe it’s gut instinct, the kind you get from 30 years on the job. Maybe it’s sheer desperation. Either way, JT isn’t going to push against it, not when they have nothing else to go on. He remembers Gil’s motto: _p_ _olicework is patience._ They’re all having to exercise all the patience and self-restraint they can right now, to examine every possible lead rather than giving in to the defeat and despair threatening to swallow them. 

The sun had set on the drive over. The spray of stars out here is dazzling; a different sky than the one that hangs over New York. Normally JT would appreciate the lack of light pollution, but the night is just a sickening reminder of how long Bright has been missing. Of how the time they have to find him is running out.

 _It’s his fault they’re out here,_ he thinks, for the hundredth time since the SWAT call came in. _Did he miss something in their initial sweep of intel about Byers’ childhood, on the list of family friends?_ Did he point all their energies in the wrong direction when the answer was sitting back on a desk somewhere in the precinct? If only they’d get a call, telling them a new possibility has been turned up. Even if they’re now a hundred miles in the wrong direction, some other team can still get Bright out before it’s too late.

JT’s found himself back by the jeep, trying to clear his head, because he can’t stand to look into Gil’s eyes one more time and see his own fears and frustrations looking back at him. Dani’s wandered off somewhere, supposedly to make a call. In reality, JT suspects she needed a moment alone, without her team watching her, to lose her shit unobserved. He doesn’t blame her.

The back doors of the vehicle are open. Inside, the deputy is hunched over the radio, notepad at the ready to record every new aspect of Bright's ordeal. As soon as JT sees him sitting there, he can’t stop himself from going to sit on the bench opposite. The deal was the deputy would _say_ if anything needed their attention... _but it can't hurt_ , he tells himself, _just to check in..._

“Anything?” The deputy - Anders, a round-faced kid who had looked overwhelmed by the solemnity of the task allocated to him - shakes his head. He’s barely written anything down on the pad since he took over. That was hours ago now; before they made it out to the farmhouse, before they drew up the list of nearby residents. “Is Byers still with him?”

“I don’t reckon so,” says Anders. JT frowns. It’s very _un-_ Bright to not have tried them over the radio in all that time.

“You think he’s still conscious?”

“It’s hard to tell,” says Anders. “Byers said he wasn't gonna let him talk anymore, back when we set off. Said he might take the tape off again, but so far, he’s just left him to it. It’s been... pretty quiet.”

 _He can't talk? _JT feels a strange burst of protectiveness and rage blooming in his chest. _Bright would_ _hate_ _that_. And - he feels another flare of guilt as he realises - _it means he wouldn’t be able to ask for them._ Has Malcolm been sitting in enforced silence at the end of the line... this whole time?

The deputy looks at him nervously. “You… you said to update you with intel, or any change in status. I didn’t think… Should I have said?”

 _Yes!_ he wants to say, even as he knows that _this_ is exactly why they handed over the radio: this rush of fury and concern; the impossibility of focussing when what’s at stake is being live broadcast into their ears _._ JT glances back over at his boss, still pacing on the veranda. _Should he tell Gil?_ He’s not sure the man would benefit from knowing Bright isn’t even _able_ to speak to them any more. He’s close enough to his wits end as it is.

Everything JT said about holding back over comms no longer applies. If Bright can’t talk, then it puts the risk of him giving them away to Byers back at zero. But it also means they can hardly have a useful conversation with him. Their energies are best spent being detectives, keeping their focus on the trail, not the hostage…

But….

JT hesitates a moment longer and then nods to the radio. “Mind if I take that for a minute?”

Anders obligingly hands him the unit and JT fishes an earpiece out of his pocket. After a few moments, he thinks he can detect the pattern of Bright’s breathing, but that may well be wishful thinking. There’s no other sounds, no hint of Byers stalking the floors nearby. He makes his decision.

“How about you get some fresh air?” Anders cottons on fast. He hurries out of the van, to go and loiter at a distance that’s hopefully out of earshot.

 _Here we go._ He suddenly feels like the world’s biggest hypocrite for everything he said to Gil earlier. But if the deputy’s right and Bright can’t speak… if he’s just trapped there, waiting, with no clue where his team are, alone in the dark…

“… Bright?” he tries, tentatively.

Is it his imagination, or is there a faint sound - as if the rhythm of someone’s breathing just stuttered? If so, then JT hopes he’s not startled the guy too much. He gives it a moment before he goes again.

“Bright, it’s uh, JT. I… I hope this isn’t a bad time, or anything. Hope you can actually hear this. Else I’m just talking to myself,” he mutters, scratching his eyebrow and wondering if this is a bad idea. In the pause, as he gathers his thoughts, he hears a soft sound. It’s barely audible, a _noise_ more than a voice. The idea that it's the best answer Bright can make, with all the fancy ten dollar words he usually likes to fling around, makes anger blaze in his chest … but if it’s an indication that Bright’s hearing him, he’ll take it.

“Anyway… if you’re there…” _Then w_ _hat?!_ Dani would know what to say here. So would Gil. But JT’s the one with the radio. “I wanted to let you know… we’re coming for you, man. I know this is a tough situation, but you’re not on your own. None of us are stopping til you’re out of there.”

He gives it another pause. It’s so easy to project into the answering silence, but Anders’ was right; it’s hard to know for sure that anyone is listening. Maybe Bright is unconscious. Maybe the sound he thought he heard was something else.

“Look… I know that… it’s not the same, but…” he exhales. Part of him is regretting ever starting this, but if there was ever a good reason to push himself out of his usual comfort zone, _this is it_. “When I was on tour. Actually, it was more like when I got back, but still - there were times when… it was a lot, I guess. I got… scared. Got myself into a dark place.” He glances over to check the deputy is still loitering out of hearing distance. “What helped me… was knowing I still had my people. So if it helps, you should know - you’ve got people. You’ve got a team, and we’re working our asses off to get you back with us. Where you belong.”

The same silence comes back at him down the radio, and as much as Bright can annoy the living crap out of him, JT would take him talking his ear off _every time_ over this eerie quiet. “I hope you know that, Bright,” he finishes softly. He nods to Anders, who heads obediently back over.

He gets up, to go and rejoin Gil. Perhaps this neighbour will have some lead. They just need _something,_ some hint of a trail to follow…

Then, once they’ve rescued Bright and they know he’s ok again, JT can go back to wishing the profiler would shut the hell up for five minutes.

***

There’s nothing to fill the silence but his own fevered imagination. He has imaginary debates with his father, trying to think up new ways to slow Byers down, but after a while he realises his father has gone away. _That’s a good thing_ , he tells himself. He’d rather be alone than stuck here with Martin.

It’s a different kind of loneliness though, being alone in the dark. It's not like anything he's used to. As if the world ends at the tape on his wrists, with the floorboards under his feet. He’s in a void, and everything beyond feels like a dream, floating hopelessly out of his reach.

Shards of his past swirl around him. Images seep past the blindfold and sink into his mind’s eye. He sees Rosa and Mae and Joshua, but he sees twenty three other faces too; faces he’s known since he was ten years old. Now more than ever, he _understands_ what his father did to them. They felt this terror too, this _despair,_ while Malcolm was tucked up safely in bed. Their muffled screams echoed around his basement while he slept on, dreaming carefree childhood dreams…

Maybe this is some sort of _karma._ Some cosmic balancing of the scales for everything his father did. For everything Malcolm failed to do. Maybe he deserves this.His guilt feels more real than the uncharted space around him; more vivid than the faceless man who’s waiting to kill him downstairs.

_Maybe he deserves this._

Gil would say that's not true, but he can’t stop himself thinking it. Gil would say he's nothing like his father… _but Gil's not here._ He’s on his own, with only his own thoughts for company. There’s nothing else.

The silence drags on endlessly. The unyielding dark presses in.

_Maybe he deserves this._

_Maybe -_

JT’s voice appears in his ear without warning.

Just the sound of his teammate’s voice is a gift, grounding him, reminding him he’s not alone. The gratitude he feels for every word is overwhelming… but he manages to keep his physical reaction as measured as he can. He’s gotten practised at breathing around the gag, and even as the tears start to fall, he manages to keep himself relatively calm.

Silence creeps back in. JT doesn’t speak to him again. _But that’s ok_. His team have work to do. He can wait, he tells himself. Gil is always telling him to be patient.

So he waits.

After a while, he wonders if he hallucinated JT’s voice, the same way he hallucinated his father’s.

He wishes either of them would come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this isn't moving too slowly! Byers will be coming back in the next chapter.


	16. Progress

Malcolm’s floating in a kind of twilight haze when the door bangs open, so loudly his heart slams into his ribs and he inhales in shock. He’s immediately set off choking and gagging, and it’s several seconds before he’s able to focus on anything but his own breathing.

In the following silence he listens, straining to hear some sign of life around him. _Is Byers in the room? Did he hallucinate the slam of the door…?_

Nothing. Silence.

Malcolm clamps down ruthlessly on the sudden, overwhelming urge to burst into tears. _How long has he been left like this now?_ It feels like hours, _days,_ of endless silence and endless dark, a never-ending struggle just to breathe and stay calm…

“You don’t look well.”

Byers’ voice comes from somewhere to his right, and even as Malcolm flinches, he feels a strange mixture of fear and relief.

 _No kidding,_ he wants to say. There’s no concern in the man’s voice, just a kind of clinical observation. Malcolm has no idea what he looks like, of course, but he’d guess ‘not well’ is an understatement. He feels _terrible_ ; aching and disgusting; doused in sweat and shivering from a sudden bout of chills. But he can put all of it aside, if Byers will just take the gag off so that Malcolm can _breathe_ again _._

He resists the urge to try and say something, to make a noise for Byers to interpret. If the lesson he’s meant to take from this is that he can be silenced, then showing he’s learned that lesson well feels like his best move. He waits…

A finger taps gently on the the tape over his mouth. “Are you going to behave, Malcolm?”

Malcolm nods and tries not to hate himself for it. He feels Byers’ hand slide to his cheek, holding him steady while he studies him. _What can he be looking for?_ Malcolm’s expression must be almost entirely obscured between the tape and the blindfold. Another reason it’s dangerous for Byers to keep him like this; it only makes it easier for him to forget that Malcolm is a _person_ , a fellow human being. Not that he’s expecting any mercy from the man at this stage… but Byers remembering that Malcolm is more than a prop, more than some dumb animal to be sacrificed, can only work in his favour.

“Yes… I think you’ve learned some manners since the last time we spoke. Is that right?”

Malcolm nods. He’ll nod at pretty much anything at this point, if it gets him the hell out of this. The hand slides up to his forehead. Byers’ hands have felt warm up til now, but suddenly they’re deliciously cool against his skin. Byers makes a light humming noise and steps away. Malcolm sits, still and obedient, and prays the man isn’t just screwing with him.

Then: a shockingly-cold brush of steel slides down between his cheek and the tape. The scissors snip and, just like that, Byers is peeling the tape away. Almost gently, he pulls Malcolm’s jaw open and tugs out the long mess of fabric from inside his mouth, until it’s all gone, and Malcolm takes in a breath. He inhales hesitantly at first, and then deeper and deeper… and simply the ability to breathe and swallow unimpeded might be the best thing he’s ever felt. “Thank you,” he whispers. His voice is a ruin. He wonders if asking for water will incite Byers to decide he needs to spend some more time sitting in silence.

“How are you feeling?” asks Byers. Malcolm’s taken aback by the question, but knows from bitter experience that taking too long to answer would be a mistake.

“Hot,” he rasps. “Thirsty.” The fire has probably died down to embers, but Malcolm feels like he’s slowly baking, his mouth parched, his forehead burning. He stopped sweating what must be hours ago - he’d be grateful for another barrel full of ice water at this point. Byers hums again, seeming to appreciate this honesty.

For a few minutes, there’s just silence. Malcolm savours his ability to take deep breaths, and tries not to think too much about what might be coming next.

“You seemed so eager to have the tape taken off, Malcolm,” says Byers suddenly. “And yet you have nothing to say. I find that interesting.”

Malcolm thinks as fast as his muddled brain can manage. “I’m trying to… remember your lessons,” he says, hoping resentment doesn’t slip into his voice. _Stay meek, stay polite. And stay out of agonising pain, where possible…_

“That’s good, Malcolm. Very good.” The silence stretches out longer. Malcolm wishes Byers would leave the room, even if just for a minute, so he could speak to Gil again. Will his team be close by now? _Would they tell him, if they weren’t?_ It feels like such a long time since he first woke up…

He wonders when the third lesson is going to begin. He knows if he starts trying to lure Byers into conversation once it’s begun, Byers will see it for the distraction it is. It’s risky to delay… yet Malcolm is reluctant to break the silence. Just sitting like this, aching and fevered but able to breathe, without Byers’ hands on him, is as good as it gets right now.

 **Is this what they taught you at Quantico? How to sit around and _hope_ the bad guy doesn’t hurt you? **Malcolm’s not sure if he’s still hallucinating, or if his overactive imagination is simply running wild, but he tries to ignore his father’s voice. He’s not being a coward. He’s _not._ He’s just _tired_ , and he needs rest, and… ****

 **You think he’s going to leave you alone because you’re sitting quietly?** ****

_I wish you’d leave me alone,_ thinks Malcolm venomously. Nonetheless, he summons his courage. ****

“Jason… can I ask you a question?” Silence. “Why - why did you start calling me Malcolm?” Byers doesn’t answer, so Malcolm tries to explain, forcing the words out through a throat that feels like sandpaper. “Before.. you called me… Mr Bright. Now it’s Malcolm. I wondered… why.” He wonders if Byers himself is conscious of his shift in language since his ‘lessons’ began.

He hears Byers exhale, but he doesn’t sound angry. There’s the familiar creak of him taking his seat.

“There’s an old Chinese proverb… ‘if you save a life, you are responsible for that life’. I saved your life, when I breathed air into your lungs. From that moment, until the moment of your final death, your life is mine. That makes you Malcolm to me, now. Do you understand?”

 _No,_ thinks Malcolm, _no, I don’t understand, you crazy bastard._ The man practically _killed_ him. He’s planning on killing him again - and in his mind, that’s created a _bond_ between them?! _Yes, it’s creepy - but is it useful?_ asks the profiler part of his brain. Could that warped logic be something that works in his favour, even if it makes his skin crawl? “Do you feel… differently about me… now?”

“I don’t _feel_ any way about you. You have a greater purpose to serve. And you will serve it.”

Malcolm considers this, wondering if it can possibly be true. _No,_ he decides. Byers doesn’t care about his mental or physical suffering - he’d go so far as to say he relishes it - but Malcolm is part of his work now. There’s nothing Byers cares about more. The man must feel _something_ towards him… With a shudder, he remembers Byers applying the salve to his arm and bandaging it - _not to ease his pain_ , he realises, _but looking after his property… keeping it in the best possible condition, until it’s ready to be used again…_

“I can hear the gears in your head turning, Malcolm,” says Byers with amusement. “What’s going on in there? It must be hard to think clearly, with the fever. Are you still trying to profile me?”

It _is_ distractingly hard to think. His head feels stuffed with cotton wool, and a headache is pressing against his temples like a vice, but Byers doesn’t need any more reasons to dismiss what he’s saying. He needs Byers to _hear_ him, not assume he’s delirious. “I am… curious,” he scrapes out. “I’m curious about you, Jason. About what… you’re doing. I can’t pretend I’m not. I’m not trying… to profile you… but I can’t stop wanting to know… more about you. Is that such a bad thing?”

“Your desire to understand me hasn’t worked out very well for you, has it? You wanted to _see_ me. To know me. You crept into my factory… and look where you are.”

 **The man has a point,** says Martin. Malcolm ignores him. He’s close to something here, he can feel it.

“Do you think… getting what we want… is bad for us?”

Because Byers _must_ have felt that when he finished his four kill ‘cycle’. Malcolm _knows_ he’s right about that, his gut instinct hasn’t changed since he first stuck this case up on the whiteboard. The man’s pleasure in other people’s pain has only escalated, yet he _built in_ a natural end to his violence by fitting his murders into his elemental pattern. He must have had _some_ sense of grief, or fury, or betrayal to realise his desire to hurt has only escalated. To find that whatever transformation he was expecting didn’t come.

There’s a pause - and then: “Why… would it be bad?”

Malcolm tries not betray his excitement at the shift in tone that question represents. Byers’ voice doesn’t sound mocking, but genuinely curious - _he can work with that._

“I don’t know,” he rasps, as neutrally, as he can manage. “Sometimes… I’ve found that to be true. I’ve… dreamed about things. And when they’ve finally come true… it’s not been… how I thought it would be.”

“Like catching me. _You_ didn’t expect to get caught,” says Byers smugly. Malcolm shakes his head, praying his voice doesn’t give out right at the moment he’s making progress.

“No… you’re right, I didn’t… but that’s… not what I meant.” He swallows, and feels another thrill of hope when Byers doesn’t interrupt his faltering speech. “You… catching me… I didn’t predict that. But there’s _other_ things, in my life… things I _did_ plan, things that happened… _exactly_ how I wanted… and still... they’ve not been enough. It feels… I don’t know the right word for it… ”

“Incomplete,” murmurs Byers, softly.

“Yes,” breathes Malcolm. “Incomplete. That’s how it feels. Do you… ever feel… like that?”

The silence stretches on. Malcolm can hear the man’s breathing has sped up, and he tries to keep his expression as still as he can. Byers _can’t_ experience this as a manipulation, as Malcolm ‘profiling’ him - or everything Malcolm’s said will be tossed aside like garbage…

“Sometimes,” breathes Byers. “I…Sometimes…” He shifts his weight suddenly in the chair and Malcolm tries not to flinch. Then Byers is up, agitated, crossing the room -

‘Wait!” he rasps, “Jason -!”

But the door is already shutting behind him. Malcolm sits, heart racing, trying to understand what’s happened.

 _A breakthrough -_ _that’s_ _what just happened._ He _reached_ Byers, just for a second. Connected to him, breaking through all those layers of disdain and contempt. It’s the kind of tiny shift that could open up new avenues for Malcolm, new chances at dialogue, at seizing back some form of control over the situation. _This is good, this is_ _good!_ _-_

But he also remembers Gabrielle’s favourite phrase, words that he’s heard so often in therapy, chiming at the back of his mind: _progress can be painful, Malcolm._

Malcolm has _rattled_ Byers, for the first time since this began. Made him reflect on his work, on his secret doubts, and on a common experience he shares with his captive. Best case scenario: Byers will want to bury the experience and carry on with his plan, with tiny new chinks in his armour exposed. Malcolm hopes Byers’ unconscious feelings towards him will have softened, and his self-doubt will have grown. Worst case… Byers might resent the sudden shift in his emotional equilibrium; resent the very fact that Malcolm could affect him at all.

He might actually punish Malcolm _more._

Malcolm swallows. He waits. He didn’t hear feet on the stairs. Byers must be standing just outside the door. _Is that a good sign, or a bad one?_

He counts. He makes it to two hundred and thirteen, when the door swings open again.

“Jason?” he croaks out, uncertain.

For an agonisingly long moment, there's only silence. 

Then the tread of footsteps moving towards him… and Byers places his hand on the top of his head. He tries not to recoil as he feels those fingers spreading out gently through his hair, like some monstrous benediction.

Nothing else happens, for perhaps a minute. Malcolm tries not to look as unbearably tense as he feels. And then Byers lifts his hand away.

“How about we get you a drink?”

He’s so surprised at being freely offered something that he wants so badly, Malcolm forgets to respond. He hears the sound of liquid sloshing in a container; of a plastic cap being unscrewed… and then Byers stops.

 _Waiting for him to reply_ , Malcolm realises, half-stunned.

“Yes… yes please,” he says, already afraid the offer will be withdrawn because of his slow answer. But then he feels the bottle at his lips, and the sensation of water gliding down his parched throat is so good he could cry. He drinks and drinks, swallowing greedily before the bottle can be taken away, but to his private amazement Byers lets him keep drinking until the bottle’s empty. It doesn’t take long: it must have been half finished before he started.

“Thank you,” he says fervently as Byers tosses the empty plastic away. “Jason, thank you…” He hopes the same part of Byers that seems to have softened hears the sincerity in his voice, the gratitude, and remembers it for whatever comes next.

Byers moves again. There’s the sound of another cap being unscrewed, and he feels the neck of a fresh bottle at his lips. He sets his confusion aside to drink, his thirst only half quenched, as Byers tilts the bottle to keep a steady stream of water pouring into his mouth. He’s breathless by the time the second bottle has been drained, but sated - for the first time in what feels like forever, he doesn’t feel that terrible thirst.

Then he hears the _snick_ of another cap.

The slow feeling of dread pooling in his stomach, the feeling of being _caught out,_ starts to creep back up on him with horrible familiarity. “Jason -“

The bottle is at his mouth before he can finish. He jerks away instinctively, feeling the liquid spill down his chin and chest, before Byers’ hands yank his head back, force his mouth open, and wedge the neck of the bottle between his teeth. Water begins to glide down his throat again in a steady stream and Malcolm can only swallow it down to stop himself from choking. “I’ve been thinking,” says Byers’ voice, coolly amused above him, “about what you just said…”

He trails off, apparently content to watch as Malcolm drinks and drinks. The third bottle finally empties with a _glug_ and Malcolm’s starting to feel nauseous from the amount of liquid he’s taken in so rapidly. All he can do is heave in a breath as the plastic bottle lifts away, trying to balance getting enough air with resisting the urge to vomit. He hears the _click_ of a fourth cap being snapped off, and _oh god, he must have an entire pack of bottles. _Malcolm’s been sitting, delirious with thirst for hours beside a goddamn _reservoir_ of water, and now Byers is going to make him drink the entire thing at once -

“No,” is all he has a chance to wheeze out before the next bottle is being forced between his teeth. This time he can’t make himself swallow fast enough: he’s choking, spluttering, heaving within seconds of Byers starting to pour. Byers relents, just for a few seconds, just long enough for him to get himself under control. The moment he stops choking, Byers is forcing his head back again. The water resumes its flow, gravity working against him, and all Malcolm can do is try to keep up with it.

He finally drains fourth the bottle and hears Byers tosses the empty plastic away. _Four, four must be enough for him, surely_ … Malcolm sucks in a frantic breath, unable to get words out or air in fast enough. “Stop -” But Byers’ hand is on his jaw again, plastic bumping against his teeth. A fresh bottle starts emptying its contents down his throat. He can’t drink fast enough, he can’t breathe, can’t plead -

“What’s the matter? You’ve asked for water a couple of times now. I know you’ve been thirsty…”

\- it keeps on coming and coming and _he’s going to throw up -_ he retches and chokes again but this time Byers doesn’t stop and Malcolm can’t lift a finger to make him —

And then he’s vomiting for real, unable to fight his body’s outraged response to the treatment it’s getting. Byers finally releases his grip so that Malcolm can twist away and vomit up what feels like gallons of water over the side of the chair. He’s dimly aware of someone fumbling at his back, and then the belt around his shoulders is pulled away, letting him double over as he retches. His stomach is cramping, throat burning, entire body _convulsing_ as every single precious drop of water he’s dreamed of for the last god knows how many hours is expelled out of his mouth, until there’s nothing left, until it feels like he’s spitting up acid. He doesn’t even feel disgust when he realises some of it has landed on his shirt, on his arm - because it’s just water, unchanged from when it was sitting in its plastic bottle only seconds earlier. He barely had a chance to swallow it before it was gone again.

Finally, dizzy and exhausted, he hangs over the side of the chair with nothing left to throw up. The vice gripping his head feels even tighter. His stomach feels bruised and hollow. He’s just downed god knows how much water and he’s probably more dehydrated and sick than he was five minutes ago.

“What do you think, Malcolm? Was getting what you wanted bad for you? Or was it enough?”

Malcolm doesn’t say anything. He has nothing left to give right now, as Byers throws his own words back at him. _This doesn’t change what happened,_ he tries to tell himself. He still struck a nerve with Byers; he always knew there’d be a cost to making progress.

 _How much more progress can he take?_ ****

**Big picture, my boy,** says his father’s voice, from somewhere inside his mind. **That bought you five minutes… and I really think you’re getting somewhere!**

 _Go fuck yourself_ , thinks Malcolm, and then Byers’ hand is lifting his head again.

“Now, unless you have any other thoughts you’d like to share… I’d say you’re ready for the third lesson.”

***

Gil’s never been so grateful to have trusted a hunch in his life.

On his orders - and much to the local sheriff’s embarrassment - they’ve hammered on every door within a seven mile radius of the empty farmhouse, asking all the bewildered, sleepy neighbours the same question: do they know anything about the family who used to live there, and the little Byers boy who came to stay every summer between the ages of 9 and 16?

It’s taken hours. The first five families had nothing. Even the elderly couple, who’ve lived for forty years out here in the middle of nowhere, had insisted they kept their noses out of other peoples business - with an air that suggested Gil should be ashamed to even be asking the question. But now, at the eighth and final house... they’ve struck gold.

The little old lady who lives here looks like she’s made out of paper and wire. Like a stiff breeze would blow her away. It took a good fifteen minutes of desperate negotiating with her grandsonto get through the front door (it turns out the man knows Anders’ family from way back, and that’s probably the only reason they’re not still wrangling with him on the porch) and then a further twenty minutes to get her up and ready to speak with them. Throughout it all, Gil has felt like the world’s biggest jackass, kicking a frail pensioner out of bed in the middle of the night - but he’d do it again in a heartbeat if there’s even a five per cent chance this lady remembers something useful…

Sitting across from them now, dwarfed by the armchair she’s in and half buried in blankets, the old lady tells them she _does_ remember little Jason Byers, and Gil sees JT and Dani practically vibrating with the excitement. A flare of hope springs to life in his own chest and he fights to contain it.

“He reminded me of my Timothy, when he was a little boy,” she says fondly. “Do you have any children, Lieutenant?”

“No, Ma'am, I don’t,” Gil says, “but you were saying…?”

He’s desperate to keep up the momentum - the need for speed not being something the lady seems to have quite grasped - but she just smiles at him sadly.

“Ah well. Never mind,” she says comfortingly. “Kids can be quite a handful. It’s my boy who gave me all my grey hairs.” _Tell me about it,_ he thinks, but outwardly he only nods, nudging her as gently as he can manage, and then she’s reminiscing again.

Every summer the Byers boy had been sent to stay with various folks across the country, she tells them. “He was _miserable_ the first year he came here”, she tuts. “Told me he wanted to go back to that other house out west, where he’d gone the year before. They had a _pool._ But then the second year, he was happier. He made a friend out here, so that was nicer for him.”

“Do you remember who he was friends with?” Gil asks, politeness and urgency warring in his voice. “The names of any of the children… or any of the places they might have gone to play… like a den, or a hide out? You know how young boys are…”

“Oh, I do! They’ve not changed much in my lifetime,” she says sweetly. Possibly she’s thinking of her own grandson, who’s currently loitering in the corner and shooting daggers at the three of them. Gil steadfastly ignores him. “Well… Jason didn’t really like to play too much with the other kids. He’d spend the whole time out on Jameson’s farm.”

Gil can _feel_ the look that passes between JT and Dani. Without him having to say a word, they’re quietly stepping away, phones at the ready to chase down the lead. The lady keeps going, unperturbed. “That man really took him under his wing. He’d always kept himself to himself, that one… folks say we’re remote out here, but the Jameson house, out in the valley? Now _that’s_ a house for a man who’s got no need for people. And yet he bonded with that boy,” she says wonderingly. “I suppose it makes sense… a young boy like that, no father figure around… he latched onto him like a baby chick. You know how impressionable young boys can be,” she says, and Gil finds a sudden, inexplicable lump in his throat.

“I do,” he manages. “Would… would you be able to give us an address for Mr Jameson?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t answer the door to you even if he was still around!” she chuckles. “Folks saw him in town every now and then, buying supplies. I drove over there myself every few summers to say hello - it pays to be neighbourly,” she adds sternly. “Now, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but he was never a very friendly man, between you and me. He passed back in the spring of… oh-nine? Or oh-eight?” She frowns, then adds brightly, “the house is still there though, just sitting empty. Gone to rack and ruin, I’ll bet. It was a beautiful old place once… looked out over the valley…”

“I know it,” says Anders, behind him.

Perhaps Dani and JT said something to him outside, because he’s in the doorway, looking at Gil hesitantly as if he’s not sure if he’s intruding. “It’s not exactly on a main road - real remote kinda place - but I could drive us out there, if one of your team doesn’t mind taking over on the radio…?”

Gil is already on his feet. “You’re sure? You know the way?” Anders nods nervously. “Then we’re going. _Now.”_ He’s almost out the door before he remembers himself. He turns back to the tiny woman nestled in the chair, looking up at him in gentle bewilderment. “Ma’am - _thank you_ , for all your help. Sorry again to disturb you - but you may have just saved a man’s life.”

“Well, isn’t that something!” she says in wonder, as Gil races out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone sticking with this story ☺️


	17. Tricks

“I’d say you’re ready for the third lesson,” declares Byers.

“I feel like we’ve already covered Water,” mutters Malcolm. He can hear Byers’ smirk in his response.

“You’re angry,” he observes.

 _Because you’re a vicious sadist who managed to turn giving me a drink into a form of torture,_ Malcolm wants to hiss, _and_ _you think I’m the emotionally unstable one?!_ But he bites his tongue. He can’t let the progress he’s made roll back. Byers is comfortable here, provoking Malcolm and then taunting him for his reactions. He can’t let him forget what just transpired. What made him want to lash out against Malcolm in the first place.

“I understand… that was you making a point,” he grits out. His stomach muscles feel so shredded from the last few minutes he’s trembling just from sitting up in the chair. “About what I said before. I think… I made _you_ angry, Jason. That wasn’t… my intention… ”

"Ssh, now." And seemingly ignoring Malcolm's words entirely, Byers slices through the tape at his elbows and wrists. Malcolm expects to have his hands re-tied before he can so much as twitch, but instead he hears Byers move away, leaving him sitting with his legs still bound at the knees and ankles, but his upper body free.

He licks his lips nervously and wonders if he dares make a grab for the blindfold. _But Byers must be banking on that… it_ _must_ _be a trap._ Is this another twisted point the man’s trying to make? Malcolm wanted water, so Byers forced gallons of it down his throat. Malcolm wants to see… so if he takes the blindfold off, will Byers do something to his eyes? Something more permanent? The idea makes his insides shrink.

But he can’t just _sit_ here, docile, a willing captive. _Should he try to take Byers by surprise?_ He’s not sure if he has the strength or the co-ordination to even make it out of the chair right now.

He hears his captor shifting, occupied with something, just a couple of feet away. _Is Byers_ _watching him right now,_ _expecting_ _Malcolm to try something?_ He’s always suspecting Malcolm of scheming, of trying to be smart… but he also sees him as weak, pathetic. Maybe the idea of Malcolm fighting back hasn’t even occurred to him? _If only he could see the man’s face… if only his head wasn’t swimming, if he wasn’t half-delirious… he could figure this out…_

 **A few more hours and he can lose the tape off your legs as well,** says the Martin in his head, popping up like a groundhog as Malcolm agonises. **You can just cower in the corner, waiting for him to kill you. I’d never have guessed you’d make such an _obliging_ victim.**

Malcolm swallows. The risk of pain is always there… but big picture: what does he have to lose?

 _Tackle him first, before he realises what’s happening - then go for the blindfold._ He can’t push off from his left side, given the condition his arm is in. His right palm is still raw with Byers’ mark, but he clasps it around the chair-arm all the same, bracing himself for the pain. He waits for a tell-tale _rustle_ from Byers to orient himself - _o_ _ne, two-_

Malcolm launches himself at Byers, banking on the element of surprise more than his ability to hurt the man in front of him -

And a blow drives into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. _Byers was waiting for him._

Hands clasp him as his body tries to double over, injuries old and new shrieking at him, and then he’s being encircled in powerful arms, holding him tight against a broad chest. Malcolm twists in revulsion as he _feels_ the laugh rumbling out of Byers - panicking at the sudden, overwhelming _intimacy_ of the embrace -

“Get off me!” The arms only grip him tighter, pressing against his wounded arm. The pain makes him cry out, but he can’t stop squirming against that grip with everything he has. The meagre sense of geography he's carefully shored up is suddenly _gone -_ his chair is gone, the door is gone. All that's solid is the cage of Byers' body wrapping itself around him and it's _beyond_ what he can handle _-_ "get the hell off me! _Let me go_ _!_ " 

“Oh Malcolm,” chuckles Byers. “I thought we’d agreed you were going to behave?” Something cold presses into his stomach. Malcolm recoils - there’s a _crackle_ —

His brain whites out. He’s dimly aware of the sound of his own shout.

He finds himself with his cheek pressed against the floor, strangely disconnected from his body. There’s a vivid lance of pain in his stomach. He can sense a weight settling over his thighs _._ “Wha,” he slurs, not understanding, not sure how to fill in the gaps of the last few moments.

“I was curious to see if you’d try anything.” Malcolm realises Byers is _straddling_ him, wrenching his arms together behind his back. Malcolm can feel them, but can’t seem to do anything to move them himself. He feels like a puppet whose strings have been cut. “That was an electric cattle-prod," Byers tells him, amusement clear in his voice. "It's something I’ve found useful, when it comes to handling disobedient animals.”

“You bastard,” Malcolm tries to say, but his mouth isn’t obeying him properly. His arms and legs twitch spasmodically. He’s aware of fresh pain blazing up in his existing injuries as Byers wraps more tape around his wrists and forearms and then the man’s weight disappears, leaving him jerking like a landed fish on the floor. A moment later, hands grip his ankles and Malcolm is dragged across the floor, his shirt riding up as his belly and cheek scrape over the floorboards.

He can’t do anything to arrest his momentum but after a moment he fights instinct and presses his face against the rough floor skidding below him, trying to catch the blindfold and tug it loose. Something presses between his shoulder blades and then his every muscle is spasming again, stars exploding against the darkness of his eyes. He’s stunned beyond sense after that, vaguely aware of sliding downwards, of the sharp lines of steps jabbing into his stomach and cheek. If he wasn’t semi-conscious it would _hurt_ but as it is, he barely registers the shift between staircase and floor.

Awareness filters back when he comes to a stop, and Byers drops his ankles to the floor with a painful _thud_. He lies there, slack and numb, waiting for the white noise to stop crackling through his limbs and his brain.

 _Cattle prod_ , he thinks to himself, in hazy, impotent fury. _Disobedient animals._

He can’t take much more of this; this _abasement_ , this fucked up game-playing where a trick or a trap is always hiding round the corner. He’s working _so hard_ , trying _so hard_ , scrabbling to keep hold of some dignity and personhood while Byers _plays_ with him… _tortures_ him… and yet here he is, in spite of his every effort, helpless and facedown on the floor. To his horror, he realises he’s on the brink of tears, furious sobs ready to spill out of him. He presses his forehead against the cold floor and struggles to regain some control over his battered mind and body.

 _He’s lain on this floor before,_ he realises dimly. Byers hasn’t taken him out of the room - he’s been dragged down the same set of steps Byers pushed him off hours, or days, ago, Malcolm has no idea which anymore. _What’s down here, that meant Byers decided to move him?_ He tries to lift his face off the cold - _stone? tile? the floor’s different, down here -_ but his movements are weak and uncoordinated, his system still reeling from the electric shocks.

Maybe Byers is watching him struggle, because a moment later hands land on his shoulders, rolling him so that he’s belly up, body arched awkwardly over his bound arms. He hears Byers settle himself, sitting on the floor beside him and breathe in deep, satisfied with whatever he sees.

“They don’t make houses like this anymore. Whole wet-rooms, a sunken tub. They call it a bath Malcolm, but it’s more like a pool. It gives us a lot of options. I could just fill the tub and roll you in, of course… that’s the easiest way. A kind of baptism, before your rebirth… what do you think?”

 _I think if you could stop being relentlessly horrifying for five minutes, that would be great_.

“The only thing is… it’s not very _hands on_. This is a process we are going through together, after all. I’m not here to watch from the sidelines.” Malcolm shudders. He knows Byers has been enjoying getting up close and personal with his suffering. There’s a reason, after all, that the man chose to suffocate him with his bare hands…

“Are you with me? _Focus,_ Malcolm.” A fist raps against his temple. “No point teaching you if the lessons won’t stick. You need to pay attention.”Malcolm swallows back tears, trying to get a grip on himself. “Do I need to help you focus your mind?”

“No… M’listening,” he manages.

“Good.” There’s a pause.“Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“… Hurts.” Not just his body from the shocks, but his own weight on his injured arm and wrist, the tape pressing down on the burn, the punch to his stomach which still feels bruised from his earlier bout of nausea. Even if Byers was to untie him, he’s not sure he could make it up the stairs.

“I’m not talking about the pain.”

“I’m… scared,” says Malcolm, _because why pretend otherwise at this point._ He knows it’s what Byers wants to hear. “Are… you scared?”

The man beside him huffs in amusement. “Why would I be scared?”

“Soon… this will be… over. You’ll have… that feeling again. _Incomplete._ ”

“Only this time, my work _will_ be complete, Malcolm,” says Byers, that warning edge back in his voice. “You’re the final piece of the puzzle. Sent here, just for this.”

“Testament,” says Malcolm. “Maybe… Or… maybe not. S’what you thought… last time. What if this time… it’s the same? What if it’s… never over?” ****

"You’ll say anything to escape death,” says Byers contemptuously.

“Doesn’t mean… it’s not… _true._ ” Malcolm tries to turn his face to where he thinks the man is. “Can be like… it’s own… cycle. You’re trapped… in it. Feels good but then… not as good…as you wanted. Then s’over. And it was… never… enough…”

Byers’ breathing grows agitated. Suddenly his hand is on Malcolm’s shoulder, shoving him face down again, as if he can’t bear to look at him.“You’re _wrong_. Like you’ve been wrong about everything else.”

“No,” he argues, but his voiced is muffled against the floor. He tries to lift his head, but all he can manage is to loll to the side. “S’true… but you can break… the cycle… you can… get _help_ -“

A hand fists in his hair, and Malcolm moans as his head is wrenched back. He feels Byers’ breath on his face. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? I’m giving your life some _purpose!_ ”

“Please,” he tries, even though he knows Byers is beyond listening, “Jason, I know… you know… what I’m talking about… please - _aaah!_ ” Byers yanks him up further, bending Malcolm’s spine like a bowstring. The strain on his back and neck is agonising, the grip on his hair bringing fresh tears to his eyes.

“Why would I listen to _you_? You’re blind. Ignorant. _Weak._ You came into this thinking you knew me… you should just be grateful you have a chance to _learn from me_ before I finally _snuff you out_.” The hand gives his head one final wrench, and then he’s thrown down to the ground again. The impact is stunning, his temple glancing off the hard floor. “See if you can understand _that,”_ Byers spits, and even through the daze of hitting the head, Malcolm can tell he's angrier than he’s ever been. “You can’t escape what’s coming. No matter how many pretty words you use.”

The man gets to his feet. His footsteps echo as he disappears upstairs.

Malcolm lies there, his mind filled with the static of pure terror. He pushed too hard - _too much, too fast,_ he knew it as he was saying it… but what else could he do? And now - _he’s going to drown, like in those mobster movies; Byers will weigh him down and watch him sink, only Malcolm will probably be drowning in a few measly inches of water, in a bath tub that comes up to his knees._ Byers might _intend_ to keep him around longer - but that’s based on his ability to perform successful CPR. Which means… there’s a very good chance he’s going to actually _die_ here in the next ten minutes.

With a supreme effort, Malcolm raises his face off the tile far enough to be able to slur out, “Gil…” There’s silence and Malcolm wants to scream. _He’s going to come back here and_ _drown_ _me, you said you’d_ _be_ _here_ \- “Gil… Dani…. JT…” _He’s been waiting so long… and they’ve all gone -_

 **Kid??** The voice comes in, Gil’s voice, urgent and familiar. “Gil,” he says again, and it comes out more like a sob. It feels so long since he’s heard that voice, since he’s had a chance to speak to the man he loves like a father. “Where are you? You said - you were coming…”

 **Malcolm, I’m so sorry kid - we were led down a blind alley…** there’s a sudden roar of static and his voice is cut off. Malcolm’s heart squeezes. There’s another squeal of static and then Gil’s voice is back. **I swear to you.… be ok.** ****

“Ok?” he parrots senselessly. There’s another crackle of static but beneath it he can hear other voices - the roar of an engine. _Gil’s on the road,_ he realises. _Driving towards him?_ Could he really still manage to save him? _No,_ sneers a voice that’s starting to sound less like Martin and more like himself, _Gil thought he was close hours ago… he doesn’t even know where you are…_

“Please… come get me,” he slurs, face pressed back against the floor again, too spent to keep his head up. He knows it’s pointless to say so but he can’t stop himself. Part of him is scared that if he doesn’t say it, Gil might not realise he needs him… like before, when he couldn’t speak, and they left him alone in the dark. “Gil, _please_ … hurry…“

The earpiece hisses in his ear. There’s a _screech_ of steering, and Gil’s voice, muffled, says something. He wants to scream in frustration because he can’t hear it over the fuzz of static. “Gil, I can’t… I can’t _hear_ you… are you coming? Did you find me?”

 **… tell me… you’re alone, right?** ****

“I’m alone… he’s not here.” Is it the fever, or the electricity, or his head ricocheting down a flight of stairs, that have him sounding so slurry, that are making it so hard to focus? “I tried to - I couldn’t… speak to you… I wanted to talk…”

 **It’s ok,** comes Gil’s reply, soothing, firm. …. **gonna be much longer. That’s not gonna…**

“How long? Gil… how much longer? I tried to stop him… but… I _can’t_ … you need to hurry… he’s gonna kill me…” ” Malcolm becomes aware of movement at the top of the stairs and he can’t help moaning. “He’s coming back…“

He makes himself fall silent; he hears Gil’s cut off breath in his ear. He can hear footsteps moving around above him.

Byers’ weight creaks slowly down the stairs, the soundtrack from a horror movie.

He’s grabbed by the shoulders again, lifted and turned onto his back. He’s used to the indignity of being casually manhandled by Byers now, but he’s unprepared when Byers moves to straddle him. His cry of alarm is instantly smothered by the man’s hand clapping over his mouth.

“Just what have you been up to?” hisses Byers, in a whisper that chills Malcolm’s blood.

His head is forced to the side. Byers starts fumbling at his ear and Malcolm’s heart seizes in terror because _he must_ _know_ _, he must have heard him talking; why didn’t he wait, why didn’t he listen for the bang of the door?!!_ The earpiece is so tiny it’s designed to be removed by a magnet, a magnet kept alongside the battery pack in his jacket pocket. Byers doesn’t know that though; he wrenches his head from one side to the other as he searches - fingers worm into his ear, filling his head with the sound of muffled thunder. Malcolm tries to thrash, to shout against the smothering hand over his mouth, but Byers only grips him harder….

Suddenly the hands stop. A moment later, something _cold_ and _hard_ slides into his ear canal.

A blade _._ The man is digging around in his ear with a _knife._

Malcolm freezes in terror, no longer trying to struggle but to stay as still as he possibly can… _because what if Byers' slips and perforates his ear drum? W_ _hat if he’s left blind_ and _deaf_ \- oh god, _please_ no _—_

Finally - mercifully - Byers manages to use the thin blade to lever the tiny ear-piece loose. Just like that, his link to his team is gone. The sense of loss is overwhelming.

He’s pushed onto his back again and the hand not currently pressing over his mouth moves to his throat, unbuttoning his shirt.Malcolm makes a tiny, panicked sound in his throat as the fingers work their way down… until they reach the microphone.

Byers exhales slowly. Malcolm can feel his heart pounding against the man’s hand where it rests against his bare chest.

For what feels like an eternity he lies there, unable to say a word, his secret finally exposed.

Then Byers starts to laugh.


	18. The Third Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter today, I'm a little nervous about this one... 😬 Hope it does the trick.

The panic in Malcolm’s voice, his slurred, loose way of speaking, make Gil want to scream at the deputy to _go faster_ as they rattle over the rough track, tearing through the woods towards the isolated house.

“Malcolm, I’m so sorry kid… we were led down a blind alley - but we got it fixed, we’re on our way to you right now, you hear me? I swear to you, we’re almost there. It’s gonna be ok…”

The kid’s response had made his heart ache, when he realised Malcolm couldn’t hear him properly. He has no idea how close rescue is. Less than hour, according to the deputy… 

Of course, back up is gonna be longer. Reinforcements and a pre-emptive ambulance have been summoned, but nothing in the world could convince Gil to wait for them while Malcolm is at the mercy of that madman. _Call me a hypocrite,_ he thinks grimly, because it’s exactly the kind of sloppy strategy he’d normally chastise Bright for - but he's going and Dani and JT are with him all the way. None of them can sit by when they know the kind of hell Bright is trapped in.

Malcolm has fallen silent again at the end of the radio, his brief window of communication slammed shut by Byers’ re-appearance. JT meets Gil’s eyes in a silent question - but Gil shakes his head. JT had offered to take over the duty of listening in for the duration of the journey, and Gil had felt like a coward that part of him was _grateful_. But then the kid had asked for him, and Gil had almost snatched the unit out of JT’s hand. Now the idea giving it back again feels impossible - he _needs_ this proof that the kid is still with them, still breathing at the end of the line…

And at least right now, things seem to be quiet.

Gil presses his hand over the earpiece, trying to concentrate on the muffled sounds coming out of the radio. Something about the near-silence is making him uneasy… even though after some of the things he’s heard over the last day, it should feel like a relief. His heart had taken such a jolt when JT had gestured for him earlier - it had felt like so long since Malcolm had tried to talk. _God knows what the kid’s had to suffer through since the last time they spoke._

Gil is never going to forgive himself for how long it’s taken to find him. Telling him they’re close isn’t enough - _nothing_ is going to be enough, not until he’s _there_ and Byers is ( _bleeding out on the floor like he deserves_ ) in cuffs - and the kid is _safe -_

There’s another faint noise on the radio, but still no speech. Not a peep out of Malcolm. It makes Gil’s hackles rise. Five more minutes pass in near silence, before there’s a sudden rush of white noise…

**Am I speaking with Gil?**

For a second, he thinks he’s imagining it. He must be mistaken.

**Gil? Are you there? Why don’t you introduce yourself?**

His heart stutters. _Not now._ _Not when they’re so close…_

Byers’ voice is perfectly crisp, perfectly unconcerned. **If you won’t speak to me, then maybe Malcolm can convince you. Malcolm, what do you say?**

Gil holds his breath, every muscle tense, waiting for Malcolm’s voice…

There’s a muffled, agonised scream.

The world around Gil falls away, everything tunnelling down to that scream, and the smirking, sneering voice in his ear. ****

 **I’m sorry, Malcolm. It looks like Gil doesn’t want to talk. But maybe we can change his mind - let’s try that again -** ****

“Byers.” The name is out of his mouth before before he’s consciously decided to say it. “Jason William Byers.” Dani and JT look at him, aghast, from the bench opposite. Gil can’t spare them any of his focus.

A chuckle floats down the line. **Aah.** **Is that _Gil_? Or someone else?** ****

“You can call me Lieutenant Arroyo.” Somehow, his voice is holding steady. Opposite him, JT is fumbling a spare earpiece into his ear, passing one to Dani.

 **Well, well…** ****

Gil can hear the smile in Byers’ voice and - quieter, in the background - _Malcolm._ Byers must have gagged him: whatever protest he’s trying to make is incomprehensible, inarticulate grunts that are drowned out by Byers’ own clear voice -

 **Malcolm here is even more duplicitous than I thought. It was _you_ he was talking to you earlier… when he was imagining that girl, wasn’t it? ‘The Girl in the Box’. He said you were a _mentor_. Now I learn you’re a Lieutenant. So you’re his boss… is that it?** ****

Gil swallows. He has no idea what the right way to play this is. He can’t think of anything he’d like to do less than let Byers toy with him over the radio… but every moment the man is distracted is another moment they’re closer to rescuing Bright. _Is that the play? To keep him talking?_ How can it hurt?

**Lieutenant?**

“Let me speak to Malcolm Bright.”

 **Is this a hostage negotiation now?** asks Byers scornfully. **What’s your leverage? You have nothing I want or need.** ****

“No negotiation. I just want to speak with Bright.”

**No negotiation? Is that because you already know it’s hopeless to try and stop me… or because you actually believe you will? See, me and Malcolm have been having a little _chat_ , off mic, haven’t we Malcolm?**

Gil’s blood chills.

 **I had to break the news to him myself… if you ask me, it’s crueller to let him hope. To let him believe that he can escape his destiny.** ****

“What are you talking about?”

 **Asking me about this place. Trying to get the blindfold taken off. You two plotting together this whole time, to try and find out where we are… I’m almost impressed. Only, the thing is…** and Byers’ voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper, as if he’s sharing a private joke known only to the two of them - **I _know_ that you have no idea where we are. And I know _you_ know that too, Lieutenant. But you’ve been keeping that from Malcolm, haven’t you? I can see why. He wants _so badly_ to believe that you might actually find him…** ****

Even as Gil’s heart aches for Malcolm, for how he must be feeling when he hears the sheer confidence in the man’s voice, Gil knows this can only be a good thing. _Byers doesn’t realise that they’re coming._ The discovery of their link could have spelled immediate disaster but Byers’ own arrogance has saved them that. _The kid said he felt invulnerable_ , Gil remembers. He ignores the cynical voice in his head that weighs in, pointing out the only way they’ve managed to track the man down is a mixture of guesswork, instinct and sheer good luck.

But right now, the priority is not tipping the man off to the fact that they’re on his tail and closing in.

“We will arrest you, Byers. We will stop you. It’s only a matter of time.”

 **You’ll stop me?** Byers voice is full of amusement. **Stop me doing… this?** ****

There’s a short, stifled shriek. Gil flinches. He can hear Malcolm spluttering around the gag, trying to get himself under control as Dani and JT look at each other, wide-eyed.

 **How about this?** This time it’s another strangled scream, clearly ripped out of the kid despite himself, tailing off into shuddering moans. Malcolm mumbles something weakly, a plea or an insult, it could be either, and Gil needs to do _something_ , to act somehow -

**Or I can -**

“Stop!!” he snarls, unable to stop himself. He knows showing emotion is a slippery slope to a man like Byers, but he can’t stay silent. “Do not _touch_ him.” ****

 **Then answer the question. What -** the word is punctuated with another pained groan from Malcolm -

 **is -** and another -

 **your relationship -** Gil clenches his jaw. Malcolm makes a noise somewhere between a sob and a growl at whatever the hell the man is doing to him -

\- **to Malcolm Bright?** ****

“He consults with my team,” he grits out. “For the NYPD.” He hopes his voice doesn’t betray that their connection might be anything deeper: God knows what Byers might be driven to do with information like _that._

 **Ok, Malcolm; let’s see if your friend Gil is telling the truth.** There’s a soft rustling and then the muffled sound of Malcolm’s panting becomes loud and clear. **How would you describe your relationship to Lieutenant Arroyo?** ****

 ** _I… I work with him… at the NYPD,_** says Malcolm, his voice trembling from pain, or exhaustion. Because of course, he can’t hear Gil anymore. Not if Byers is the one with the earpiece. ****

**Lieutenant, you’re a more honest man than your employee here. He’s been lying to me since the moment we met.**

**_Gil,_** says Malcolm breathlessly, ** _I’m sorry - don’t -_**

His words cut off abruptly. **What did we say, Malcolm? _No speaking_ unless you are _spoken to_. I would have thought having your boss around might finally make you behave…**

Gil’s furious oath dies on his lips as Dani reaches forward, catching his arm and giving him a warning look. He bites his tongue and nods, knowing she’s right. _The more of a reaction he gives, the more Byers has to make a game out of this..._

**Are you going to be good?**

There’s a choked sound - Gil has no idea if the noise is wrung out of the kid through violence, or if it’s his own reaction to Byers’ mockery - before Malcolm grits out his answer. ****

 **_Yes. I’ll… I’ll be good._ ** ****

Gil knows the kid well enough to hear the shame in his voice and the _unfairness_ of it fills him with rage. Because even through the agony of the last twenty four hours, Malcolm hasn’t sounded like _this_ \- like he wants the earth to open up and swallow him. It’s the difference, he knows, between having his powerlessness overheard by his team… and having it purposely _flaunted._

 _Byers is going to enjoy this_. Malcolm knows it, and Gil knows it too… and neither of them can do a _thing_ to derail him… ****

**Malcolm’s been trying to get out of his lessons - but now that you’re here, Lieutenant, you can help with that. But first, I think I’d like to get to know you a little better. You’ve been listening in on me all this time…it’s only fair.**

Gil’s mind races, trying to think of the thing he can say that will somehow put an end to this _._ Because the man is right:he has no power here, there’s no negotiation. Not because of protocol - Gil would throw aside protocol in a heartbeat if he knew it would guarantee the kid’s safety - but because Gil has nothing to offer that the man wants.

Except perhaps, the pleasure it brings Byers to taunt him.

 **What have you and Malcolm been whispering about, hmm?** There’s the slow saunter of footsteps and for a second Gil thinks maybe Byers is walking away to speak to him privately; that the kid is getting some kind of a break. But the steps carry on and Gil realises it’s more likely that Byers is circling Malcolm, moving around him as he speaks. **Has he been _profiling_ me over the line? Have you been giving him hope, in his darkest hour? Telling him it’s all going to be ok?** ****

“Let me speak to Bright, and then we can talk. Once I’ve had assurances about his wellbeing -”

 **Assurances?** Byers sounds amused; the footsteps come to a stop. **Malcolm, why don’t you tell Gil how you’re doing?**

 ** _Jason, please… leave him out of this,_** says Malcolm, sounding like he wants to cry. Like after everything he’s already been through, Byers has struck on whole new way to make him suffer. There’s the distinctive _thud_ of a boot hitting flesh and a shout of agony. Gil sucks in a breath.

 **Don’t be _rude_. Say hello. He sounds worried about you.** ****

“Stop,” demands Gil, nails digging into his palms, “Byers _-_ fine… if you want to talk, then let’s talk. You and me -”

 **But I’m afraid Malcolm has to learn, Lieutenant.** There’s a gasp of pain that Malcolm quickly tries to cut off, and Byers chuckles. **You see, your _profiler_ **\- the word is heavy with disgust - **thinks he’s a _smart guy_. Thinks that he understands _everything_. That he has all the answers. But what I’ve learned, over the brief time we’ve spent together, is that he’s just like any other undisciplined animal. With the right methods… he can be taught…**

“You son of a bitch,” Gil hisses, unable to contain himself.

**Come on… Stop wriggling and say _hello_ to Gil.**

**_Stop - aah, stop!_** There’s barely the sound of a struggle. Whatever’s happening, the kid must not be able to put up any kind of resistance, but he's clearly trying his best to ride it out, to keep a lid on his pain. His bravery only makes it worse, thinks Gil, because he can't win - Byers will only push him harder, until -

 ** _Ahh... ok!_** Malcolm bites out, sounding furious, ** _ok!_** ** _Hello… hello Gil, I said it_** _-_ ****

 **Too late. I’m afraid it’s not up to you anymore, Malcolm. It’s up to Gil now.** Malcolm gasps - it sounds like he’s in agony -

“ _Stop,_ ” Gil demands, “whatever you’re doing to him, stop.”

 **You’ll have to try harder than that,** says Byers complacently. **And in the meantime, Malcolm and I are going to see how much pressure it takes -** there's a helpless cry **\- to snap this rib. And when this one’s done, we can move on to the next -**

“What do you want me to say?!”

**If you really want me to stop… then ask _nicely_.**

Gil feels he might shatter from the fury he feels, boiling inside him. “ _Please_ ,” he growls. He doesn’t know how they got here so fast - how he’s ended up _begging_ the sadist on the other end of the line within a few minutes. _Except he does... b_ _ecause he can’t stay silent while Malcolm is being tortured._ Byers knows he holds all the cards.

There’s a shifting sound, and Malcolm groans in relief. Gil closes his eyes.

 **Better, Gil. You’re fast learners, both of you. Now let’s try that again…** ****

**_Jason, wait!_** Malcolm’s voice is still breathy with pain. ** _I-I’m sorry about the radio. I’m sorry… but Gil doesn’t need to be a part of this. It’s like you said… it’s about you and me, a process we’re going through, together -_**

His dazed pleading is cut off by what sounds like a kick. **Gil and I are talking now. Stay quiet.**

 _He is going to_ _kill_ _this man_ , thinks Gil furiously. _When they find him Gil is going to beat the living crap out of him_. He wonders if he should stop responding to the taunts - but if he suddenly disappears, he’s sure that Byers will only make Malcolm suffer in retribution. He shouldn’t have answered, he should never have told Byers he was there… _but then Malcolm would still be screaming._ Gil couldn’t stay silent when, for the first time since this nightmare began, Gil had some way to actually _stop_ that…

**Are you ready to talk, Lieutenant… or is this all too much for you? Should I do you a kindness and cut the line now?**

“It may not seem like it, but you have options here, Byers. You have a hostage.” He tries to keep the desperation out of his voice. “If you have demands, we can discuss them - as long as Malcolm Bright is alive -“

 **He is right now - but he won’t be for much longer,** Byers says, with a casualness that takes Gil’s breath away. **Let’s not waste each other’s time. There’s nothing you have that I want… but I have something _you_ want. Which makes this very simple. I’m going to ask you some questions. Every moment you waste will make things a little harder for Malcolm - because I'm not stopping our little game until we're finished. And if you lie to me, or try to get _smart_ with me in any way… I’ll forget about his ribs and stamp on his throat. So. What will it be?**

It takes a moment for Gil to form a response through the cloud of rage that envelopes him. “Don’t cut the line,” he manages. He mouths _ETA_ at Dani, who’s instantly moving forward to hold a whispered conversation with the driver. _Please God, let them be close..._

 **Good.** He hears Malcolm take a short, pained gasp. Gil fights to keep his own breathing calm. He wants to hurl the radio out of the jeep, but he _has_ to play along. He knows what could happen when Byers gets bored of this game, and it’s even worse than what’s happening now…

**How long has Malcolm worked for you, Lieutenant?**

“Less than a year.” Gil answers almost instantly, but Byers still takes his time in asking the next question. 

**Hmm. Is he a good employee?** ****

“He’s a brilliant profiler,” says Gil quickly. The faint moan he hears in the background is like fingernails down a blackboard.

 **What are your feelings towards him?** ****

“I respect him as a colleague.”

 **I asked how you _feel_.** ****

“I…” _I love him like a son._ “I like the guy. He… he’s headstrong, doesn’t always listen to orders, but his heart’s in the right place. I trust him.” He swallows, praying he pulled that off.

 **I see.** A tiny part of him relaxes, but the pause tells him Byers isn't done. **So...** **how will you feel when he dies on your watch?** ****

Fury roars in his chest. Gil presses his eyes closed, wondering how the hell he can keep his voice steady, when he feels a hand land on his shoulder. He risks a glance and sees JT looking back at him, everything from _I’m sorry boss_ to _keep your shit together_ to _let’s get this sonofabitch_ coming across in his gaze. Gil takes in one deep breath before he goes to broadcast again. “Bright isn’t going to die.”

No response. _You fucking monster,_ thinks Gil. What does the man _want?_ “It would... be a huge loss to my team,” he says, trying not to choke on the words - but there’s still nothing from Byers. Instead, there's a pained whimper that makes his stomach clench, and he can’t help but _see it,_ in his mind’s eye - Byers’ boot grinding down, with Malcolm trapped beneath it. “I... I’d feel personally responsible,” he grits out finally… and is rewarded by the sound of Malcolm gasping in relief.

 **Gil says he feels personally responsible for your current situation, Malcolm.** **In case you were wondering who to blame.** ****

 ** _Not his… fault,_** says Malcolm weakly. **_My… idea._** ****

 **You don’t blame him? Not even a little?** Gil sees JT exhale hard through his nose. Dani lands back on the bench beside him and mouths _thirty._ Thirty more minutes of this torture…

 **_No._ ** ****

**Even though he can sit there right now, listening to all this, without a scratch on him?** The voice suddenly drips with disdain. **Look at you. Begging _._ Screaming. You know that this is what they’ll remember, when you’re gone? **Malcolm lets out a tiny noise of distress. **I know… it’s not how you wanted this to go. But here you are, with no way out. Are you _sure_ you don’t hold Gil accountable for that?**

Malcolm’s voice is worn thin by screaming, but there’s defiance running through it all the same.

 **_No. I don’t._ ** ****

**Really?** Byers sounds faintly irritated. **Then** **I wonder if you’ll blame him… after this.**

There’s a grunt - a sudden rustle of movement. He tries to unpick what he’s hearing: _footsteps - faint struggles - is the kid being lifted? Carried?_ Gil would bet his badge Malcolm is trying to resist whatever’s happening, but it’s clearly no challenge for Byers to manoeuvre him as he wants. Eventually Byers sighs, as if settling down from some exertion - and there’s a panicked yelp.

**Ssh. Head back, now. There we go…**

**_No…_ **Malcolm’s voice, weak as it is, still sounds louder than it was a few moments ago. He and Byers must be closer. The acoustics are different too; his voice echoes. _A cellar?_ _A bathroom?_

 **If it wasn’t for your little deception, this would have played out differently,** says Byers. **But you are a liar, Malcolm, and you know how I feel about lying. You don’t _deserve_ a baptism. You’re not worthy of one. So now… you’re going to drown _slowly_.** ****

 ** _No..._ _I’m sorry_** , and now the kid sounds _terrified,_ ** _I’m sorry I lied to you, Jason - but don’t… don’t…_**

****“Byers, talk to me,” says Gil, desperate, not sure he’s able to hide _how_ desperate any longer. “Just hold off, and let’s talk -“

 **Why don’t you tell Gil about your next lesson?** suggests Byers, in a tone that makes Gil’s hands clench into fists. **He is responsible, after all. Tell him what he’s brought down on you now.**

 ** _Fuck you,_** sobs Malcolm, **_fuck y-_** and then his voice is muffled.There’s the screeching sound of rusted metal, of water pouring. Gil strains to hear, struggling to make out what’s going on…

And then, just on the cusp of hearing: panicked, garbled sounds. Spluttering. Choking.

Gil suddenly _knows_ what’s happening, without needing to see it; without needing to be told. JT’s expression announces that he understands it, too. Dani has taken out her own earpiece; she’s checking her gun, jaw clenched, trying to make herself focus - but Gil can’t stop listening, he _can’t_ step away, he's frozen in place - _Byers has trapped him on the end of the line as effectively as he’s trapped Malcolm…_

After an endless stretch of seconds, the tap shuts off with a screech. There’s no noise at first, and Gil wonders if he’s misunderstood…until he’s assaulted by the sounds of Malcolm gasping and wheezing, heaving in great gulps of air. Byers gives him a minute to get a grip on himself.

 **Do you blame Gil for _that_?** ****

**… _No…_ _this isn’t… this isn’t his fault -_**

His voice is muffled again. A second later, the tap is turns back on and Malcolm’s speech warps into the sound of a man drowning.

“ _Stop_ ,” hisses Gil, “you want to ask me another question, ask me a goddamn question!” Byers acts as if he hasn’t spoken.

 **A towel… and a tap. It doesn’t take much,** he murmurs. **All the elaborate forms of torture the world has invented, when the basics do the job just as well.**

“ _Goddammit,_ ” snarls Gil, his finger off the talk button, before he jabs it again - knowing it’s futile, knowing he has to try. “Byers, stop! Let him up!” But the water keeps running and Gil can only sit there, a helpless bystander to the kid’s agony. He counts the seconds, praying every one is the one Byers will _turn the water off_ -

The tap is wrenched off, _finally_ , and Gil wants to sob in relief - _only he can’t still hear Malcolm breathing_ \- the muted sounds of panic carry on -

It’s not until a few moments later that Byers must lift the towel off his face - and _then_ the kid can breathe, and the harsh sounds of him struggling for air, choking raggedly, are all that Gil can hear.

**Well?**

It takes Malcolm longer to recover this time - he’s half-drowned already. All his bravado has been left behind, he’s pleading the moment he has breath to do so -

 **_Oh god…_ ** **_stop!_ ** **_… I learned my lesson, I swear…_ ** ****

**But this lesson isn’t about you, Malcolm. It’s about Gil. He’s the reason this is happening to you. Do you accept that he’s responsible for the situation you find yourself in?**

_Just say yes,_ Gil wants to scream, _for the love of God say yes,_ say whatever gets that madman to stop - but Malcolm just moans in despair. _He’s too disoriented,_ Gil realises in horror; in his right mind, surely Malcolm would know Gil would want him to say _anything_ to get this to stop, however painful - nothing could be more painful to him than hearing Malcolm suffering like this —

 **I asked you a question, Malcolm. If you won’t answer… then we can do this all day…** ****

**_No, I can’t… Jason no no, please!_ ** __

The tap turns on for a third time and Gil feels like he’s going to lose it. How long can Byers make this go on for? Can a person die from waterboarding? What can he do to _make this stop??_

 _“_ Byers, let him up and let’s talk. You _wanted_ to talk. Ask me another question,” he begs, “whatever you want to know -“

 **I’m afraid not, Lieutenant. These lessons are important,** and the man’s voice is maddeningly unhurried against the gurgling backdrop of Bright _drowning_. **And** **I think you’re learning something from this as well…** ****

“For God’s sake, he needs to breathe! Stop! _”_

The sound of running water halts. Gil sags in relief - but Byers doesn’t even give him five seconds. The towel returns to muffle Malcolm’s frantic breathing almost as soon as it’s resumed, just in time for Gil to hear his choked off scream.

**Your lesson, Lieutenant, is that you can’t save him.**

“Stop,” gasps Gil, because he can hear the kid thrashing, _suffocating,_ and he’s genuinely scared Byers’ game-playing is going to kill him. _No_ _one_ _can survive this, not over and over again_ \- the kid is going to asphyxiate - Gil’s heart is going to explode -

“Ok! You win - I can’t save him,” tries Gil, desperate, urgent - “if that’s what you want me to say, I’ll say it as many times as you want… just _let him breathe!_ ”

There’s movement, and _finally_ Malcolm’s tortured breathing comes back into full surround sound over the earpiece. It’s only then that Gil becomes aware of Dani beside him, her hand gripping tightly onto his. They listen as Malcolm retches weakly, waiting for him to be able to speak…

 ** _Gil,_** he sobs finally, and it’s like a knife in Gil’s chest.

**Gil’s learned his lesson, Malcolm. What about you? Are you ready to answer the question?**

**_… Jason,_** ** _please_** ** _!_** **_Oh god, I’m sorry… I’m sorry I lied to you… but I can’t… I can’t do this…._**

Opposite, JT closes his eyes in despair. Gil wonders in horror if Malcolm even remembers the question - he’s not just distraught; he sounds delirious. Gil would pay a fortune to still be a voice in the kid’s ear, to be able to tell him to just _say it,_ but he has no way of speaking to Malcolm now, no way to communicate…

Except via Byers.

Malcolm’s begging becomes incomprehensible as Byers presses the wet towel over his face again, ready to start over. He lets out a hysterical wail —

“It’s not his fault, and it’s not my fault either,” Gil blurts out. “Coppenrath’s the one who signed off on the op.”

The tap turns on anyway, and Gil’s worried Byers has stopped engaging with him, too lost in toying with Malcolm. After an awful stretch of seconds, the water stops again. Malcolm dissolves into a fit of coughing, like he’s going to bring up a lung. ****

 **The two of you are very alike,** says Byers, impossibly calm, **refusing to look reality in the face. Gil wants you to blame Coppenrath for what’s happening here. But deep down, you know the truth, don’t you?** ****

 **_… C-Coppenrath?_ ** __

The kid sounds so confused. Gil holds his breath, praying he’s with it enough to understand the message in Gil’s words, that he won’t say anything that could make things even worse. Bright, JT, Dani, all of them: they’d all said what needed to be said as part of the sting to bring Dr Coppenrath down. Malcolm hadn’t thought twice about using his own mental health as a smokescreen, about asking his team to badmouth him to the doctor, and Gil had gone along with that. _Play Byers like you played him, kid. You can do it…_

 **Say it, Malcolm. Tell me who’s really at fault here, and this can stop. Is it really Coppenrath you want to blame?** ****

**_No…_ **it’s barely a whisper. **_He wasn’t…_ _It wasn’t his call._** Malcolm’s voice breaks. **_I… I blame Gil. I blame Gil, ok?_** ****

Gil leans back against the wall of the van. ****

 **Good! Good. That’s cleared the air… Well done, Malcolm.** Malcolm doesn’t respond. Gil can hear him sobbing faintly, trying to gather himself, get himself back under control.

 **I think those are fitting final words for you to hear, don’t you, Gil?** ****

The radio goes dead.


	19. Endgame

Byers has finally managed to find something that’s even worse than his nightmares.

Since the waterboarding began, all Malcolm’s self-control has broken down. He’s a mess; begging, screaming, everything Byers mocked him for, but he’s not sure he cares anymore. He’ll do _anything_ to make this stop. He’s forgotten about Gil, about strategy, about putting off whatever comes next. The entire world has been reduced down to two things: _breathing_ and _drowning._

Byers sits on top of him, pinning him to the base of the tub, and the horrifying _hands on_ intimacy of that alone is enough to make him lose all composure _._ His back is inclined over something, tilting his upper body back, his arms crushed beneath him, fingers scrabbling helplessly against the slick enamel. The tap over his face drips irregular, freezing drops of water onto his cheeks; onto his eyes under the sodden blindfold; into his mouth as he pants for air. It feels like there’s a gallon of water in his lungs already, like cement has been poured into his chest. The last of the water gurgles down the drain and immediately the freezing towel, clogged with water, is draped back over his face and Malcolm would _scream_ in despair if he could…

There’s the familiar shift in weight as Byers reaches for the tap — and then he’s choking and gagging, throat filling with water, sinuses burning, all rational thought obliterated. There’s nothing he can do to make it stop, nothing Byers wants from him - he’s just doing it because he _can_ , because this living hell is his idea of _fun_ —

The freezing, battering spray turns off again and Malcolm flails, wrenching his head from side to side when Byers doesn’t immediately lift the towel away. He instinctively sucks in the breath to shout, to beg for him to _take it off_ and all he inhales is more icy water. The heavy cloth is soaked with it, clinging to his mouth and nose, sealing him off from any chance of air. He bucks at the man sitting on top of him, exhausted muscles straining to sit him up, to knock the suffocating fabric loose—

A hand pushes him down again easily, and the towel plastered across his skin is finally, _finally_ peeled off his face. Malcolm lies there, choking, and so cold he feels his head might be about to split open. The idea he’s been enduring this for what he knows logically can only be a matter of minutes fills him with terror. He can’t take any more… but there could be hours more to come. Byers has stopped asking him about Gil, about punishments and lessons, content with simply turning the tap on and off at random intervals; torturing Malcolm the way a bored child might pull the wings off a fly. He could do this another hundred times, over and over with no respite, suffocating by him inches. _He’s going to drown in a dry tub, his lungs full of water…_

“I am starting to believe you’re truly sorry, Malcolm,” says the man on top of him reflectively. Malcolm can’t speak yet but he tries to nod. “Perhaps it’s time we stopped…”

 _Yes,_ he wants to shout, but even the attempt to form the word sends him coughing. He tries to twist his head to the side clear his airway, wheezing convulsively. “Was that a yes?”

Malcolm nods urgently. After a few more moments, he manages to croak out the word. He doesn’t even recognise his voice; his eyes tear up again at the idea of his team listening in to this, at how far he’s fallen in such a short time. Byers sits back, and Malcolm feels like he might faint with relief that he actually means it.

He tries to focus on simply breathing, on calming his racing heart. To engage his rational brain, and silence the part that’s just sheer animal panic. _How long has it been since Byers spoke to Gil? How much of their conversation has he missed under the spray?_ Realising that Byers was using the link to toy with Gil too had been devastating. Blaming Gil for the torture Byers was inflicting on him had _hurt._ The idea that those might be the final words Malcolm ever says to him, the man who’s done more for him than _anyone,_ who _saved_ him…

“Can I… speak to Gil?” he tries. He knows the odds of Byers letting him are laughable, but he can’t stop himself.

“Not anymore. I let the earpiece go down the drain. There’s nothing else we need from the Lieutenant.” Even though Malcolm hates the idea of his team hearing him like this, he hates the idea that he’s alone with Byers even more.

“He’s… gone?”

“It’s just you and me.”

Malcolm’s lip trembles. _Don’t cry,_ he snarls at himself, _you’ve cried enough, you’ve abased yourself enough in front of this man -_ but his attempt at steel quails the second he hears Byers moving, and the heavy squelch of the towel being lifted up again. His breath catches: “no, no!”

But instead of wrapping it round his face, Byers starts using the towel to clean what must be dried blood away from his latest ‘mark’ - the third symbol, for water - carved by Byers shortly after he discovered the radio link. The wound sits just below his collarbone, in the exact spot the microphone used to be. The weight on his stomach lifts and he’s rolled over, face down, the motion triggering him to expel a new fount of water from his lungs. The towel gently works at the dried blood on his cut hand and then, as Byers moves down his body, his cut foot.

Byers lowers himself again, this time sitting on Malcolm’s lower back, and holds him steady with a hand across the back of his neck. The position triggers every instinct to squirm and panic but he forces himself to hold still, sensing what’s coming. Sure enough, a moment later, a blade is cutting into the skin at the base of his neck. Malcolm feels a strange mix of terror and relief.

 _The final mark. The final lesson._ It means his current torment is over. _Whatever’s next, it can’t be worse than this._ But then…

Malcolm swallows, and it hurts. His throat is swollen. _Everything_ hurts. He’s never been so scared or exhausted or hurt in his entire life….

But still, he doesn’t want to die.

 **Well, on the bright side… Byers is planning to bury you alive,** chirps Martin’s voice, full of sunny optimism. **I know it’s hard to get excited about the idea of being locked in a box six feet under, but we did decide that would give you another, what… four, five hours? If Lieutenant Arroyo is on his way then I’m sure even _he_ can make it by then.**

 _You know things are bad when your worst nightmare is your best option,_ thinks Malcolm bleakly. Byers is going to nail him screaming into a casket. _But his team will get him out; they’ll save him._ He has to believe Gil is coming for him, no matter what Byers says. He has to trust his team. All the pain he’s brought upon himself since he stopped the man burying him the first time round, all the terror, it will be worth it… when he gets to walk away from this. Alive.

But of course, once he’s _in_ the box, there’ll be nothing else he can do. Right now he can distract Byers, try to lure him into conversation, try to provoke some new, additional punishment to put off the final act… _except he can’t._ He knows it makes him weak, but Malcolm _can’t take_ anymore of that smothering towel pressing against his face, of convulsing around an airway filled with water. He feels like he’ll go _insane_ if Byers starts again…

The knife makes a last incision and Byers dabs at the fresh cut. “The final mark, Malcolm. How does it feel, knowing we’re nearly at the end?” Malcolm just shudders. He feels Byers sawing at the tape around his knees, the rope around his ankles, until the bottom half of his body is free. Byers climbs out of the tub. “Get up.”

 _He’s got to be joking._ Even if Malcolm had his arms free and wasn’t lying at the bottom of a water-slick bathtub, he doubts he’d be able to get himself to his feet. Byers levels a kick at his side, and the impact sends Malcolm coughing again, water rattling around inside his lungs. “I said, up!”

He doesn’t even know where to start. He tries to shift one of his legs, to bring it under him to get to his knees, but he’s so weak it’s more of a twitch than a movement. Byers growls with impatience. A second later, he’s grabbed by the collar and half-lifted, half-dragged out of the tub by the scruff of his neck. There’s a second of him slipping on his knees on the wet tile and then Byers is yanking him up again, sending him scrabbling to get his faltering legs under him. His carved-up foot shoots out a bolt of agony where it touches the floor, and he buckles, the man’s hand the only thing keeping him upright. He feels like Bambi, taking his first steps.

Byers drags him forward, not seeming to care when he ends up more carrying him than guiding him up the steps. It takes all of Malcolm’s focus to simply try and keep his feet under him. At the top of the stairs, Byers shoves him into a corner. Malcolm leans heavily against the wall and tries not to collapse. His knees are shaking.

“Where’re we going?” he wheezes. Byers doesn’t answer. He hefts something up from the corner - a bag, its contents clinking and knocking together - and then Malcolm’s being roughly gripped by the arm again and dragged across the floorboards…

Out onto the staircase he listened out for so carefully while he was trapped in that chair (Malcolm realises he thinks of it as _his_ chair). He slips again and Byers’ hand is the only thing that stops him from plunging headfirst down the entire flight of stairs. He stumbles down beside Byers, more of a controlled fall than a descent, and then…

They’re moving along…

Through a door… and another…

He feels wind moving gently through his hair. The chill of the breeze on his damp skin. The strange way that even in the silence, he can _hear_ the space, stretching out all around him, unconfined by walls or floorboards for what could be miles and miles…

 _He’s outside._ He hadn’t realised how badly he wanted to be outside again until this very moment. He feels a sudden rush of gratitude to be free of that house, that terrible place that’s echoed with the sound of his screaming. Byers yanks him across what feels like wooden decking, down more steps…. onto grass that’s wet with dew. It stings against the bleeding sole of his foot but it’s also somehow _refreshing_ , cleansing. He wishes he could just stay there, feeling the infinite space above him, the firm earth under his feet…

“Come on,” says Byers - and his brain catches up with his situation. His heart drops. _They’re not just stepping outside… they’re_ _leaving_ _…_

They can’t leave. If Gil’s found him, he’ll be coming _here_ … Malcolm _needs_ to be here…

“Where are we going?” Byers shakes him and Malcolm stumbles helplessly in response.

“Shut up and walk.”

“No…” He tries to wrench away. “Where are you taking me?!”

“Oh, _Malcolm,_ ” purrs Byers suddenly, the annoyance in his voice shifting to amusement. “Is that it? You still think your Lieutenant is coming to rescue you? You think _anyone_ is gonna find us, where we are?” Malcom presses his lips together, refusing to answer, but his hopes must be plain on his face, because Byers actually _laughs._

He starts tugging Malcolm along again. Malcolm tries to twist away - he shouts - and without warning, he’s shoved hard in the chest. He flies back, landing hard and reeling at the dizzying sense of _nothingness_ around him.

“You think anyone’s gonna hear you? _No one is coming for you._ ”

“Then you won’t care… if I scream,” winces Malcolm, painfully sitting up from his sprawl on the grass.

“Are you sure you want to find out? You know there are consequences when you’re disobedient.”

 _I’m not really worried about marks for good behaviour on my own personal death march,_ thinks Malcolm, but he’s clear-headed enough to keep the thought to himself. “I can’t walk if you electrocute me,” he says hurriedly, remembering the cattle prod. He tries to stifle his instinctive flinch when he hears Byers take a step closer.

“That’s true. I suppose could drag you where we’re going - we’d probably get there faster. But I’ve done enough of hauling you around,” sneers Byers, as if Malcolm has been a deliberate inconvenience to him over the last twenty-four hours rather than an unwilling prisoner. “So, you can either walk and keep your mouth shut, or… I have rope. I’ll make you a bridle. Keep your tongue still _and_ get you moving. Which will it be?”

Malcolm feels raw hatred burn in his chest, so fierce it takes a moment to be able to answer. “I won’t scream.”

“I thought so. Get up.”

He can feel the man’s eyes on him, watching him struggle as he tries to get to his feet. It’s so much harder to find his balance without his arms free and with his eyes covered. When he’s standing again, Byers grips his shoulder and pivots him until he’s pointed the right way. “Now _walk_.”

And wondering if every footstep is taking him further away from any hope of rescue… Malcolm walks.

***

Even thought it slows them down, the jeep comes to stop some distance from the house. If Byers hears an engine in the distance, their presence will be instantly blown. With the now-quiet radio still tucked into his jacket, Gil moves as swiftly and silently as possible through the woods, following the barely-there dirt track… until his eyes finally land on the house.

The farmhouse was probably charming fifty years ago; now it looks like something out of a fable, neglected and crumbling. Gil stares up at it in the pre-dawn light, before he nods to the others. The young deputy is spooked, Gil can tell - like he’s wandered from his cosy station into the final act of a horror story - but he’s doing his best not to show it. Dani and JT's faces are set in grim determination. At his signal, JT and Anders move round to the front door - Dani follows him as he moves towards the back. The door’s not even locked, hanging open and askew on rusted hinges. Gil slips through, into an empty, cellar-like room filled with old barrels and farming equipment. His nerves sing with tension, but his trigger-finger is perfectly steady as he clears each room - an old pantry, a laundry room… a rickety set of stairs, leading up…

Gil sets his jaw. _Malcolm talked about being kept ‘upstairs’._ He meets Dani’s eyes, before stepping on the staircase and sending up a silent prayer of thanks that it doesn’t creak. The door at the top is closed. They exchange a nod -

And Gil kicks the door open, gun aimed dead ahead. It’s a large, airy room, dimly lit… empty. At the far end, the floor gives way abruptly. The acoustics suggest if anyone else was in here they’d be able to tell but nonetheless Gil and Dani edge closer to the drop…

On one side, a small spiral of steps leads in a U-turn down to a tiled wet room, but there’s no safety railing to cordon off the two levels. On the other side, there’s simply a two metre drop. Gil ducks his head, surveying the space - the drains, the sunken tub that looks more like a paddling pool. _Empty._ Both rooms are empty. But…

Over his pulse racing in his ears, Gil allows himself to catalogue the details he’s already seen but not truly taken in. Below, pinkish water is spattered around the tub, a soaking clump of towels beside it. Behind, the room behind is large and almost featureless but for the old fireplace, cold ashes and a poker lying in the grate. Two abandoned chairs sit beside it, the only furniture in the centre of the unvarnished floorboards. To the side, a small folding table, covered with what looks like medical supplies and a pair of scissors. Those are the headlines of the room: it’s the fine detail that makes Gil’s blood boil.

Curls of duct tape and rope hang from one of the chairs. The floor below it is stained with blood. Behind the other chair is a collection of mundane items that, collectively, paint a much darker picture. Rolls of linen bandaging.A coil of rope. Duct tape. A stack of bottled water. And the thing that Gil’s eye finally comes to rest on, and makes his vision swim with fury: an electric cattle prod.

“Boss…” Gil turns and follows Dani’s gaze, down to what he instantly recognises as Malcolm’s suit jacket, thrown carelessly on the floor in the corner beside the door. Malcolm’s shoes stand neatly beside it, tucked against the wall. The sight makes Gil’s flesh creep.

 _Where the hell are they?_ He _found_ them _,_ he’s standing in the goddamn room where Malcolm’s been held and tortured for the last twenty-four hours and _Malcolm isn’t there._

Byers must have moved the kid to another part of the house, he tells himself. He nods to Dani to indicate they should move off, when his eye catches something, barely visible in the dim light.

A set of bloody footprints leading from the wet room, along the dusty floor, out the door. _Not quite a ‘set’_ , he registers numbly; it’s only the right foot leaving the prints, and while they fade as they trail out of the door, they continue all the way down the stairs. With a glance to Dani, they follow the marks…

To where JT and Anders stand waiting on the veranda outside the house. JT’s face is tight with tension. “We cleared the rest of the house,” he says grimly. “But it’s not exactly a mystery what happened.” The faint red prints lead down the steps, and then disappear on the long grass. “There’s still a car parked round the side,” he adds. “I’m hoping it’s the only one, which means they can’t have gotten far.”

Gil looks out at the hills and woods surrounding them, for any sign as to where Byers would have taken Malcolm. _He was walking,_ he tells himself, _that’s a good sign,_ but the rest of him knows deep in his bones that if Byers has left his sanctuary, he’s reached his endgame. He pushes back the rage and despair and sheer frustration of the empty house, because they’re as close as they’ve ever been. _Malcolm is alive, possibly just beyond that tree-line,_ and they are his only hope.

“Ok,” he says, “we split up. We stay in radio contact. They took the front door so that suggests they were heading east, either up the hill, or by the brook. JT, you and —“

The scream wavers through the air, echoing faintly around the valley _._ Gil’s head snaps round like a bloodhound’s. After a moment it echoes out again, shrill and desperate, and he’s running before he’s registered it: faint as it is, he can pick out his own name, screamed out in sheer terror. The cries stop a second later but it was enough to give them a sense of direction, if not distance, and Dani and JT are hot on his heels as he races, swiftly and silently, into the woods, up the hill…..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and commented on the last chapter! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one too... as the chapter title suggests, we are approaching the end... 😱


	20. The Final Lesson

_The scream wavers through the air, echoing faintly around the valley. Gil’s head snaps round like a bloodhound’s. After a moment it echoes out again, shrill and desperate, and he’s running before he’s registered it: faint as it is, he can pick out his own name, screamed out in sheer terror. The cries stop a second later but it was enough to give them a sense of direction, if not distance, and Dani and JT are hot on his heels as he races, swiftly and silently, into the woods, up the hill….._

_***_

_Ten Minutes Earlier…_

Malcolm stumbles over a rock, or a root, for about the fiftieth time. He winces, catching himself heavily on his injured foot. Byers doesn’t react beyond grabbing his shoulder to correct his bearing. He takes a few more steps and trips, landing on his knees with a cry of shock. Byers yanks him impatiently back onto his feet.

“This would be easier… if I could see,” he ventures breathlessly, trying to keep his frustration out of his voice. “I could walk… faster. You wouldn’t have to keep… pointing me in the right direction.”

“The blindfold stays. If you’re finding it too hard to walk in a straight line, I can put you on a leash,” suggests Byers. Malcolm falls silent again. For a few more minutes he says nothing, trudging up the hill, trying not to cry out when stones and twigs gouge into his bleeding feet. He keeps his tone meek when he tries again.

“Is it ok… if I talk?”

“Depends on what you have to say, Malcolm. You know we’ve already discussed you screaming.”

“I won’t… scream. Just… talk.” He trips again and, true to his word, bites back a shout of pain as his knees strike against stone. Byers doesn’t give him a second to recover before he’s set back on his feet. “Are you… still going to bury me?”

“Yes.”

“And… I’m never going… to see your face? Not even now?”

“I don’t change my mind, Malcolm. My path has always been clear. You shall die, as you lived. In the dark.”

“If… I’m going to die…”

“If?”

“Because… I’m going to die,” Malcolm amends, “does that mean… I get a final request?”

Silence.

“What was her name? The first girl you killed?”

There’s no answer. But there’s also no new threat, no sudden burst of violence. Malcolm ploughs on. “I’d just… like to know. Like you said… I’m joining the others. I’d like to know… all their names. Rosa. Mae. Joshua…”

“Emily. Her name was Emily Jacobs.”

Malcolm stops walking in shock, earning him a shove that almost sends him crashing to the ground. “Is that true?” It only takes him a second to start frantically back-pedalling - “I don’t mean — I’m not calling you a liar —”

“There’s only one liar here, Malcolm.”

“I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t think that you’d… tell me.”

“The information has no value. For you, or for me.”

 _You’re wrong,_ thinks Malcolm. He’d bet Byers would never give Emily’s name up to the police. It’s only because he’s on the brink of killing Malcolm that he’s telling him. “Emily,” he echoes, and in his mind he sees the name go up on the whiteboard, alongside the photos of the other three people Byers has killed. He wishes he could have done more for them. Caught their killer, instead of being caught _by_ him. But if - _when_ \- Gil comes and finds him, he’ll know her name. Bring some peace from out of the horror. All this torture will have earned him _something_. “Thank you…”

“Kneel.” Malcolm double-takes.

“What?”

“We’re here. Kneel.” Byers has barely rapped out the command a second time before he’s pushing Malcolm down. Malcolm can smell fresh earth, and he knows that he must kneeling beside the grave Byers dug earlier. “It’s time, Malcolm. Time for your final death.”

 **I told you my boy,** says Martin’s voice, sadly in his ear. **Things can always get worse… and now here we are. I’d say this was a new low…**

He tries to fight the waver in his voice when he says,“you don’t have to kill me.” Tries to put some certainty into the words, to make them less futile than he knows them to be.

“This is what it’s all been leading towards, Malcolm. The final lesson. You should be proud to have made it here.” Malcolm feels strangely removed from his own terror. He should be panicking, confronted with the end of the line, with his worst nightmare, but instead he feels an eerie calm descending. He’s suddenly very conscious of the soft earth beneath his knees, of the breeze raising goosebumps on his skin, of the chill of the damp blindfold. The distant, quiet call of a bird.

He swallows. _If he can keep Byers talking long enough, maybe he’ll never have to climb into the casket._ Maybe he can escape just one of the horrors the man’s planned out for him. “Jason… I mean it. You don’t have to do this.”

“Is that so,” asks Byers indulgently. “And why is that, Malcolm?” There's a rustling in front of him: Byers must be crouching down, so that they’re eye to eye, as he asks, “Do you see the good in me… is that it? You think I could have a second chance? Am I forgivable?” A finger traces lightly down his cheek, and Malcolm shivers. “Do you forgive me, for everything I’ve done to you?”

Malcolm doesn’t answer and Byers laughs. “I didn’t think so.”

But Malcolm has nothing left to lose, so he asks: “what is it, that you’re doing to me? Do you even know? Do you know why you’re doing it?”

“I do it for reasons you can’t possibly understand,” says Byers.

“No. You do it because you need to,” Malcolm says. “You like it - you enjoy hurting me… humiliating me. Making me beg. It makes you feel good. But it’s more than that… if it was _just_ that, this would be very different. It’s a need for you, isn’t it? And all of this - the ritual of it, the marks - it’s just a way for you to try and control it. To understand it. But _you don’t understand it_ , Jason. You don’t control it; it controls you. You’re sick. But you could get better.”

Byers hand closes around his throat; not squeezing, just gripping it lightly, a promise of pain. “You’re wrong,” he whispers. “What I do has _meaning._ A meaning greater than all your lives combined. And when you’re dead… it will finally be complete.”

Malcolm swallows, and feels his throat work against the man’s palm. “It won’t be, Jason… You know it won’t…” The hand squeezes and he falls silent. After another moment, Byers releases him.

Malcolm waits in the silence, shivering, hearing the wind in the trees. He wonders if Byers is still looking at him, or if his attention has turned to the grave, to whatever tools he’s brought with him. He feels weak at the very idea of what comes next. “So… now… I join Emily? You’re gonna… put me in a box?”

“I’d like to see that, Malcolm. I think you’d put on quite a show. But no. That’s not how this goes.”

Malcolm feels his heart flutter against his bruised ribs _._ The idea he might escape that fate floods him with an impossible hope. “What do you mean?”

“I told you. This is a process we go through, side by side. Together.”

 _Is he planning to climb in the casket alongside him?_ “I… I don’t understand,” Malcolm says, and Byers snorts.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you since we began, Malcolm.”

“But you…. You’re _not…_ going to bury me?” He hates how hopeful he sounds.

“Oh Malcolm… of course I am. That’s always been the plan.” Malcolm’s confusion must be written all over his face, because Byers chuckles, almost fondly. “You’re going in the ground. But there’ll be no box for you… you’re going to drown in the dirt.” Byers must be looking into Malcolm’s face, at whatever emotion is displayed there, and there’s still not a hint of reservation in his voice as he talks. “Why seal you away inside a coffin, when you can be one with the earth? I’m going to cover you up myself… spread the soil like a blanket over you. For your final rest. It’s going to be something… very special.”

Malcolm’s blood has frozen in his veins. He can’t respond to Byers. He can barely process what he’s just heard. His final hours have just been snatched away from him: they’ve become final _seconds_. All of the courage he’s been summoning, all his desperate hope, dissolves into nothing. _There’s no way out of this… His team can’t save him… he’s going to die in the next five minutes, in a hole in the ground…_

“Malcolm? No last words…? Ok, then.” Byers’ hand lands on his shoulder —

\- and Malcolm throws his head forward as hard as he can. He hears Byers roar in pain - hears him fall back, as Malcolm stumbles to his feet. He feels the loose earth give way at his side and almost falls into the grave right then, teetering on the edge, before he manages to recover himself and _run,_ as fast as he can, stumbling blindly forwards —

His foot catches on a tree root and he falls, unable to catch himself, landing hard, but he’s struggling to his knees within a second. A strength borne of terror helps him find his feet again and _run run run_ , slipping and tripping on the uneven terrain, no idea where he’s headed except _away_. He feels his ankle twist under him but he barely registers the pain, staggering on as fast as he can. He can’t hear if Byers is chasing him, if the man is right behind him - all he can hear is his own breath, sawing in and out of his lungs. He catches his shoulder on a tree and bounces off it, lurching to the side as he tries to stay upright —

Something _slams_ into him, knocking him to the ground, pinning him against the mulch of leaves and twigs. _Byers,_ wrestling him down, leaning all his weight on top of him — Malcolm lifts his head, dragging in as deep a breath as he can manage, and _screams,_ putting everything into it. “ _Help!! HELP ME!”_

“ _Be_ \- _quiet!_ ” Byers pushes him onto his back, “I told you to _shut up -_ ” but Malcolm is already shouting, desperate, 

“ _No, no please, help me! Gil! GIL I’M HERE, HELP ME!”_

“I told you to stay quiet!! _Do as you’re told!_ ” Byers grips him by the shoulders, shaking him like a rag-doll, but Malcolm is beyond threats now, beyond pain or strategy or caution —

“Get off me!! You think you can teach me, you think I give a shit about your _lessons_? This is all just a delusion and you’re delusional and none of this is real, there is no balance, no cycle, you’re just a _psychopath!_ GIL! GIL, HELP ME PLEA -“

Byers snarls, lifting him and smashing him back against the ground. Malcolm falls silent, stunned. Before he can recover, Byers is straddling him, one of his hands scrabbling in the ground beside his face —

And Malcolm chokes, trying to twist away, trying to shout, as Byers stuffs a handful of earth into his mouth. He bucks, trying to push the man off but Byers doesn’t shift - he claws another fistful of earth from the ground and rams it in after the first. “Go on - swallow it down,” he snarls viciously. Both of his hands clap over Malcolm’s mouth as he gags and thrashes. Malcolm writhes, overwhelmed by fury now as well as fear _-_ he tries to bite, to scream, to spit out the dirt filling his mouth but Byers presses down relentlessly until he’s forced to swallow.

As soon as his hands lift away, Malcolm is spluttering, rolling onto his side, desperately trying to spit dirt from of his mouth. Byers takes the opportunity to loop something loosely around his feet. It feels like coarse rope, not even tight enough to restrain him, and Malcolm kicks out, trying to shake it off - when it cinches tight, pinning his legs together. Byers pulls - and Malcolm starts skidding along the ground, dragged by the noose around his ankles. “No!” he screams, but his voice dissolves into ragged coughing, “no!” He tries to catch himself with his bound hands, grasping at the rocks and leaves underneath him. His fingers find a tree root and he grips it tight, but Byers simply wrenches - the rope bites into his flesh - and he’s pulled away. “Jason, stop! No!—Jason, I’ll do more lessons - just take me back to the house! Jason, take me back to the house! No!”

He’s dragged inexorably along, screaming, writhing, through the stones and undergrowth, back towards the grave. He’s finally brought to a stop and the lasso around his legs slackens, before Byers rolls him onto his stomach, deaf to all his cries and struggles. He feels Byers lifting the closed loop of his bound arms, feeding the length of rope through them, the end of it still cinched around his ankles. He tries his best to squirm against whatever he’s doing - “get off me! Don’t —“

Byers pulls the rope tight with a sharp tug - and in one smooth motion, Malcolm’s legs are drawn up behind him and his arms are pulled down taut. Malcolm yelps in surprise; Byers laughs breathlessly. “See how far you can run now,” he sneers.

“No! No! Don’t!” Byers ignores him, focussed on tying the rope off. “You son of a bitch, let me go! No!” Byers steps away and Malcolm tries to lash out, to kick, to sit up, to do _anything,_ but it’s useless, and his sheer helplessness makes tears spring to his eyes. “No! Let me go _let me go goddammit,_ untie me!”

He feels something being slipped into his front shirt pocket. Byers pats it lightly. “We don’t need to hear any more from Gil… but there’s no reason for him not to hear this, is there?” There’s a click, and Malcolm realises that Byers has brought the control unit outside with them, has held onto the microphone, solely for his team to hear _this_. “Gives you a chance to say goodbye. I’d say it fast, while you can still talk….”

“No,” he sobs, “that’s not fair, turn it off, I don’t want them to hear this… turn it off -“

“Goodbye, Malcolm.” Byers gives him a shove, and he topples into the waiting grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🙈 Last big cliffhanger, I swear!


	21. Into the Light

_He feels something being slipped into his front shirt pocket. Byers pats it lightly. “We don’t need to hear any more from Gil… but there’s no reason for him not to hear this, is there?” There’s a click, and Malcolm realises that Byers has brought the control unit outside with them, has held onto the microphone, solely for his team to hear this. “Gives you a chance to say goodbye. I’d say it fast, while you can still talk….”_

_“No,” he sobs, “that’s not fair, turn it off, I don’t want them to hear this… turn it off -“_

_“Goodbye, Malcolm.” Byers gives him a shove, and he topples into the waiting grave._

***

The air is smashed out of his lungs by the impact. The earth is damp and cloying beneath him, the scent of it filling his nostrils. He twists onto his side as much as he can, just in time to feel the first spray of soil land across his face.

“No! No! -"

There’s the sound of scraping, as Byers uses a shovel to push a huge shelf of dirt down on top of him. He tries to roll away, to escape the soft impact across the length of his body, but already there’s dirt on either side of him, piling up around him, making it hard to roll over. “Jason let me out! Don’t do this to me, please let me out!”

Above he can hear the scrape of the shovel, sounds of exertion. Byers doesn’t answer him. “You son of a bitch!” he screams. He wrenches furiously against the rope. More dirt lands in his mouth and he spits it out in disgust.

**Have a little dignity, my boy. Is this really how you want to go?**

“You can shut the hell up too,” Malcolm pants, because he’ll be damned if the last voices he hears are Jason Byers and his father. Or if his last words will be about them, either. He has no idea if the microphone is really working, if Gil’s really listening, but he grants himself one calming, sobbing breath before he speaks again, trying to block out the sound of soil raining down around him. “Gil… if you can hear me…”

Another avalanche of mud rains down around him and he breaks off into coughs. “It’s not… your fault,” he manages, “none of this was your fault, I’m sorry I said that… I’m sorry for everything.” He pauses to wriggle, trying to let some of the dirt landing around him slide under him rather than cover him. “Her name was Emily Jacobs, the first girl he killed. Emily Jacobs. Please tell my family… tell them I love them, tell them I’m sorry and…and I love you too Gil, thank you for everything, everything you’ve done for me…” He’s cut off by another _shove_ from above, an entire shelf of dirt being knocked down to land in a thick carpet on top of him.

He shakes his head, trying to dislodge it from his face. He tucks his chin against his chest, hoping to create a tiny pocket of air, but the soil is fine, spilling into every tiny gap like sand in an hourglass, and Byers shovels more and more of it down on top of him. He holds his breath and squirms in his bindings, trying to inch his way up, towards the air - but however he moves, dirt slides down to wrap around him, until he’s held firm on all sides, immobile, suspended like a fly in amber. He can’t hear Byers shovelling anymore, he’s lost all sense of up and down. The dirt stops up his ears, slides around his neck like a noose; slithers around his clawing fingers. “Gil,” he tries to say, but more of it pours into mouth, into his nose as he tries to breathe, and the name is swallowed by the soft, silent earth…

_***_

_**No... I don't want them to hear this...** _

He’s halfway up the hill when Malcolm’s voice suddenly springs to life in his ear, and Gil flinches violently. The radio’s still in his pocket, more as a talisman than anything else at this point, but the last thing he was expecting was to actually hear the unit broadcast again.

**_No! No! Jason, let me out!_ ** ****

Gil’s lung are burning but now he’s running even faster - _the kid’s alive, that’s what matters, they’re so close, whatever’s happening, they’ll get there in time —_

**_Gil… if you can hear me… none of this was your fault…_ **

He sees the signs of a struggle ahead, clear enough for even a city dweller like him to spot - the deep groove raked through the leaves, as if something - or someone - had been dragged along. Breathless, Gil signals to JT and Dani - the deputy has fallen behind at some point - and they fan out through the trees, pressing forward, weapons drawn… ****

**_Her name was Emily Jacobs, the first girl he killed…_ **

The trees are denser up here, the weak dawn filtering palely through their branches. It’s impossible to hide the sounds of their panting breaths, their urgent footfalls over the leaves and twigs, but there’s nothing else to be done. To his left, Dani darts forward, a look of absolute focus in her eyes — ****

**_Please tell my family… tell them I love them…_ ** ****

The ground is finally levelling out below his feet - he crests the hill and he’s aware of a faint noise up ahead… not voices, not Malcolm, but the sound of steel, of metal hitting stone -

_digging,_ his brain fills in, Byers is digging - or burying something— and ahead, through the trees, Gil spots a flash - the flare of light off moving metal, winking through the trees at him and then it’s gone —

**… _and I love you too Gil… thank you for everything -_**

_No goodbyes, kid, I’m here, I’m coming,_ but Malcolm’s voice is fading out, the sound of his breathing choked and muffled, as Gil bursts into a clearing -

Ahead, the open grave, a mound of loose soil beside it. And busy with his work, shovelling the heavy earth back onto the grave, his huge frame bowed as he scatters soil —

Jason Byers.

The man’s head snaps round as Gil bursts out of the trees. For a second, time runs slow, as he meets his gaze. Byers pauses and even across the clearing, even in the weak morning light that gives everything the same ethereal glow, the intensity in his eyes is terrifying.

Byers’ eyes slide from Gil’s, to the gun. His lips draw back, something between a grin and a snarl, manic, desperate — as he raises the spade high over his shoulder, to bring the sharp edge crashing down on whatever’s in that grave —

And Gil fires. The bullet rips through Byers’ shoulder, knocking him back, the spade falling to the ground as he’s thrown —

And Gil is running to the grave, not a second glance at Byers because the voice in his ear has _gone_ —

To his left, he senses JT and Dani bursting out of the tree-line, heading straight for Byers…who has rolled onto his front and is staggering to his feet to intercept Gil -

JT tackles the man like a linebacker, smashing him to the ground. “I got him!” he yells, as Dani circles around him, cuffs already in her hand. Byers is screaming and writhing like a wild animal as the two of them cuff him and hold him down —

As Gil skids to the graveside, his heart bottoming out at silence, the stillness within - the uninterrupted carpet of soil…

***

The dark and the silence softly press in on Malcolm from every side, cradling him gently, swallowing him whole. He’s without air, without gravity, without sound or light, floating like he’s back in utero. He did his best and fought his hardest but there’s no fighting back against this, against the earth itself clenching like a fist around him and gently squeezing him tight…

And he lets himself be held, as the the darkness wraps itself around him, crawls inside him, as the pressure builds and stars supernova behind his eyes and —

_He’s moving —_

\- being pulled up, or down - the smothering earth around him coming loose -

Light bursts down on him and _this is it…this is what dying feels like…_

**_Kid, you’re ok - stay with me -_ **

There’s the sigh of the wind in his ears, its brush on his skin - and then warmth, a hand on his face, tilting his face towards that dazzling glare and Malcolm tries to pull away. Suddenly the pain in his chest is so much sharper as he heaves and coughs, struggling to draw breath - it _hurts -_

_Because it’s Byers,_ of course it’s Byers, _he’s dug him up just so he can bury him again,_ and Malcolm tries to pull away, choking and crying because it’s never over, even now, even after everything - ****

**_Malcolm, can you open your eyes? Malcolm?_ **

It’s Gil’s voice… _is the earpiece working again? That can’t be right, that’s not right… Is it another hallucination?_ His eyes must be open, because the light is splitting into him - but then he registers the brush of a thumb against his temple, the _lack_ of pressure across his brow. The light is coming through his eyelids; the blindfold has gone… which means…. which means…

“Come on now. Look at me…”

Opening his eyes feels strangely unfamiliar. Malcolm has to concentrate to prise his eyelids apart… just the slightest crack, and he recoils from the blaze… _so bright, the sky is_ _glowing above him,_ and in the centre, a darker shape… a smudge that resolves itself into a face as Malcolm squints, the image blurry and wavering, but unmistakably…

Gil. He looks down at him, worry and love in his eyes, as he brushes a thumb over his cheek.

“Hey, kid… you with me?”

Malcolm blinks up at him, in disbelief and wonder. He feels a smile dawning over his face, a smile that comes shining back at him twice as hard when Gil sees it. He’s never seen anything so wonderful, so welcome, in all his life.

“Gil…S’good… to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ☺️ At last....
> 
> Full disclosure: this is always where I'd originally imagined the story ending... but then i kept writing... so now there will be a kind of epilogue, a few more chapters long, with a little bit of aftermath and catharsis for Malcolm and the team. The next part will be going up later this week. Thanks for reading this far 💜


	22. Epilogue, Part One: Out of the Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the first bit of the epilogue... part one of four ☺️

The kid looks half dead.

This is a 100% improvement from a minute ago, when Gil dragged him out of the earth and thought he was _actually_ dead, so Gil will take what he can get. Those blue eyes blink up at him hazily from a face streaked with mud, a hopeful smile dawning like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Gil,” he croaks out. “S’good… t’see you….”

Malcolm has a dopey grin on his face despite everything, despite the fact they’re currently in an _open grave_ and he’s half-buried in dirt. He looks heart-stoppingly fragile, but he’s _alive_ …

He’s alive _._

Gil’s sheer fucking joy and relief crash up against a wave of terror, every emotion threatening to spill out at once - because the kid is _here_ , smiling up at him, but _he was so close… he’d looked_ _dead_ _,_ Gil was _seconds_ away from being too late, from losing him forever…

Before he can stop himself, he’s wrapping the kid up in a hug, cradling his head and pulling him in close. Malcolm feels limp in his arms, unable to even hug him back with his arms still tied, but he lets out a contented little sigh, mumbling into his shoulder. “You’re here. You’re really here…”

Gil presses a kiss into Malcolm’s hair. “I’m here, kid. You’re ok now. You’re ok…”

He doesn’t want to let him go; he wants to replace every memory of screaming and suffering that came out of that radio and replace it with this, with Malcolm tangible and breathing and _alive_ against him. He murmurs a heartfelt prayer of thanks and gives himself a count of ten before he forces himself to straighten up and gently lower the kid back against the slope of earth. “You’re safe, Bright. I promise.”

His hands are shaking, he realises. _Must be the adrenaline._ He tries to steady himself, to assess the situation like a professional. Malcolm squints up at him - it looks like he’s having trouble with even the weak morning light - as Gil tries to gauge the state he’s in. “I need an ETA on that ambulance!” he shouts up, not sure which member of his team is there to hear it but unwilling to turn his attention anywhere else for long enough to work that out. Malcolm’s shirt is so streaked with mud and blood Gil can’t pick out a single individual injury. They haven’t come this far for the kid to bleed out in a hole in the ground, for Gil to lose him after all this - but he’s no EMT, he’s not trained beyond the basics - and _God knows_ what Byers has been doing to him _-_

“Gil…?” croaks Malcolm. Gil tries to wipe the panic off his face as he brings his eyes back up to meet him.

“Yeah? What is it, Bright?”

“S’…ok. Y’don’t have to… look… so worried…”

Because _of course_ the first thing the kid’s gonna do with his new-found vision is analyse Gil’s goddamn facial expressions.

“… M’not… dying,” Malcolm finishes, as if that’s meant to be reassuring.

“Kid, that’s not a high bar to clear.” He doesn’t even know where he can risk _touching_ Malcolm without inflicting more pain. He’s unnerved by how still the kid is lying - normally he’s a flurry of movement - and then he remembers Malcolm’s still restrained. Short of flipping him over like a pancake, it’s hard to see _how,_ but the thought gives Gil an immediate focus for his attentions. He moves to his side.

“We’ve got an ambulance on the way,” he says, gently shifting the kid’s weight to try and see what’s keeping Malcolm’s arms pinioned behind him, “but how about you give me the headlines up front? Where’re you hurt?” He catches sight of a bloody-looking bandage on the kid’s arm - decides he’s gonna let himself think about that later - and then glimpses rope. _Good -_ rope he can work with - cuffs would be trickier -

“’m ok,” Malcolm repeats weakly, “I‘m ok, I… Gil….”

Vague panic is creeping over his face as he starts taking in the world beyond Gil, his eyes darting to the crumbling soil walls surrounding them, the rectangle of pale sky floating above. Finally being able to _see_ what was almost his own burial plot, Gil realises, must be a shock all in itself.

“Hey - hey, look at me,” he cuts in softly. “Malcolm? That’s right. Kid, I don’t think you are 100% right now - but you’re gonna be. I promise.” His hand lands on Malcolm’s cheek and some of the tension fades out of the kid’s expression. After a moment, he nods.

“You found me,” he murmurs, and the way he says it is almost a question - like he’s not entirely sure this is real. Then he says it again, making it a statement this time, and the glowing look of gratitude in his eyes makes Gil’s stomach twist in guilt.

“You got us the intel, Bright. It’s down to you we made it here —”

A shadow falls over them both; a silhouette looming against the sky. Malcolm shrinks and Gil twists round, his body blocking Malcolm’s out of sheer instinct… but it’s of course it’s not Byers. It’s Dani, looking down from the grave’s edge.

In the short span of minutes since he plunged his hands into the loose earth and dragged Malcolm out - since the kid coughed and spluttered his way back to life in his arms - Gil’s not given a single thought to the fact Byers is probably only feet away from them, trusting his team to take care of everything else while he takes care of Malcolm. His entire world has narrowed down to the muddy pit he’s kneeling in. He feels a sudden pang of guilt for leaving Dani and JT to deal with everything else - but there’s nothing accusing in Dani’s expression as she says gently, “ambulance is maybe thirty minutes out. Can I do anything?”

Gil gives her a grateful look. “You got anything up there that can cut through rope?” Dani disappears. A second later, she’s passing down a short bladed knife - _probably from the bag Byers left by the graveside -_ along with a bottle of water from her own supplies _._

“I’ll be right here,” she says. “You two need anything, just shout.” She gives him a tiny smile, its warmth flickering across her face like a ripple across water, before she steps out of view again. Malcolm twitches on the ground, all the movement he’s capable of at the moment.

“Was that Dani?” he asks hoarsely. Gil nods. He doesn’t want Malcolm to feel overwhelmed - he knows that’s exactly why Dani has already made herself scarce - so he’s already planning his response for when the kid asks to talk to her… only he doesn’t. He’s staring up at the sky above them, his eyes widening. Gil didn’t think it was possible for him to get any paler beneath the muck, but he was wrong. “Where… where’s Byers?”

“We got him,” says Gil, firmly, trying to intercept his gaze again. “Bright - he’s in cuffs. He’s not getting anywhere near you.”

“But - Dani -”

“Dani’s fine. JT’s fine. He can’t hurt anyone now. You don’t have to worry about that, ok?”

“I want to see him,” says Malcolm, his voice breaking. He’s straining to move, to widen his field of vision, to glimpse who else might be near the edge of the grave, but he’s not even managing to sit up: an observation that sends a new shiver of fear down Gil’s spine. Between the mud and whatever’s keeping him restrained, it’s impossible to get a clear sense of Malcolm’s injuries. Gil puts a hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm him down, but Malcolm flinches in pain -

“Shit - sorry -“

“I need to see him,” insists Malcolm, “Gil, I have to - see his face -”

“And you will,” soothes Gil, “if that’s what you want Bright, you can see him. He’s under arrest and he’s not going anywhere.” _Especially not within fifty feet of you,_ he thinks privately, but he’s not gonna weigh in while the kid’s so agitated. “But first thing’s first… how about we cut you loose, huh?”

He waits for Malcolm to calm, to slowly nod his permission. “Alright then… I think I’m gonna have to turn you on your side. Is that ok?” Gil’s searching his face for any sign of panic, but Malcolm just swallows and gives another nod.

“Right side,” he mutters. “Left side’s… not great."

“Ok, then,” says Gil, filing away what he’s sure is a _massive_ understatement for later examination. “Right side…”

Gil gently manoeuvres him to get a clearer view of his bound hands, confused when he sees duct tape, not rope, around Malcolm’s wrists. He brushes away more dirt… revealing that the rope is looped around Malcolm’s bound hands - and extends down to wrap around his ankles, stretching his arms taut against his back, keeping his knees bent behind him. Ice pools in his gut as he realises Malcolm’s in a goddamn _hogtie._ No wonder he can’t even _sit up -_ below the thin layer of soil that’s been hiding most of him from view, the kid is bound up like a pretzel.

But Malcolm is silently waiting for Gil to free him, with a patience that worries him almost as much as anything else he’s seeing, so Gil swallows down rage and hurriedly saws through the rope strung between his arms and legs. Malcolm gasps when it snaps and the pressure slackens, and promptly dissolves into a fit of coughing that makes Gil wince. He abandons sawing through the duct tape in favour of helping Malcolm sit upright, supporting him with his arm. He could kick himself - _he should have given Malcolm water before he did_ _anything_ _else_ \- for all he knows the kid hasn’t had a drop since he was taken.

He waits for the fit to subside. “How about a drink?”

Malcolm nods eagerly. Gil brings the bottle up to his lips. The kid manages half a sip -

And then he’s twisting away fiercely - and Gil’s arm is the only thing that stops him from toppling over. “Woah! Bright-!“ Because he’s suddenly wrenching against him, fighting as best he can with his arms still bound behind him. Gil tries to steady him, to stop him from hurting himself -

“ _No!_ ” he pants, “let go, _get off me!_ ”

Gil is stunned to have elicited this reaction, _horrified_ , and he’s torn between rushing to do what Malcolm asks and knowing he’s the _only_ thing stopping him from falling face first in the dirt. After a moment’s hesitation, he grips the kid’s shoulders - “ _no! Let go!_ ” - just long enough to prop him safely up against a muddy wall. He shuffles back, raising his hands, putting as much distance as he can between them in the small space.

“Ok, you’re ok, kid. No one’s touching you, you’re good. Bright? You with me?”

Gil waits for those wide blue eyes to land on him again, for the kid to come back to himself. It takes a minute, and then the wild look of panic on his face fades. He looks surprised to find himself alone at one end of the muddy trench, with Gil kneeling cautiously at the other.

“… Bright?”

“I… I’m sorry.” His gaze lands on the water bottle and squeezes his eyes closed. Frustration is written all over his face. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to do that…”

“It’s ok,” says Gil hurriedly. “It’s no problem, kid.”

But from the look of abject misery on his face, it's clear Malcolm doesn’t believe that. It’s _also_ clear the kid is desperate for water, but for whatever reason, Gil has spooked him. “What can I do?” asks Gil helplessly. “Do you… do you wanna try again? Or I can finish untying you… you can try yourself, when…” _when you’ve recovered the motor skills_ he thinks, because he’d be amazed if the kid could even _lift_ his arms right now after how Byers has had him restrained. “Or… we can wait for the ambulance… whatever you want to do, Bright…”

Malcolm just shakes his head - at one of his suggestions or all of them, Gil can’t tell. “I don’t know. I don’t know…” His face crumples and he ducks his head, because he can’t do anything else to hide his face, and Gil’s heart feels like it’s gonna shatter.

“Kid -“

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. Gil hesitantly goes back to his side and, when the kid doesn’t flinch, he puts a gentle hand on his good shoulder. Whatever impulse made Malcolm recoil before has gone - he leans into the touch and within a second Gil’s hugging him again, as the kid sobs into his shoulder. “I‘m sorry… Gil, I’m so sorry….”

It’s outright ludicrous that Malcolm is the one apologising to _him_ , when he’s used every ounce of bravery and wits to stay alive all this time, but Gil doesn’t interrupt him. The kid’s in shock, crying from relief as much as anything else, a reaction to the horror of the last twenty-four hours and finally finding himself safe. Gil doesn’t want to do anything to interfere with Malcolm letting that out. He ends up just murmuring in his ear as Malcolm’s entire body is wracked with sobs. “It’s ok,” he promises. “You made it. You’re gonna be ok.”

They stay like that until Malcolm’s crying has crescendoed and then quietened down. When he’s done, they stay a little longer. Finally, Gil feels him shift and he takes his cue, helping to settle him back against the wall. Malcolm’s eyes are red-rimmed, his gaze low, so Gil deliberately aims to catch his eye when he asks, “Better?” He feels something loosen in his chest when the kid’s eyes flick up to meet his and, despite his embarrassment, he breaks into a small, lopsided smile.

“Actually, yes,” he admits, and he smiles again when he sees Gil’s genuine grin.

“Alright then. How about we get that tape off, and then we figure out what’s next?”


	23. Epilogue, Part Two: Into the Air

It’s short work to take care of the duct tape with the knife. Gil eases Malcolm into a sitting position, fighting every instinct not to give the kid a full pat down to get a sense of how badly he’s hurt. Malcolm has promised him that there’s no immediate danger, and he’s had little enough autonomy over the course of this ordeal: Gil wants to respect his boundaries as much as he can. It just doesn’t exactly help, knowing that the kid could be _inches_ away from expiring and he’d still probably tell people he was _fine_ …

There’s blood everywhere _._ Malcolm assures him again that there’s nothing fatal, there aren’t any stab wounds he’s failed to mention, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt jus _t looking_ at him. Bloodstains peek out from the collar of his shirt. Gil can glimpse vicious-looking bruising on the kid’s stomach where his shirt has come untucked and loose. _Probable fractured ribs,_ he adds to his mental tally; _water in his lungs. Severe dehydration. Impending infection and fever,_ given the amount of untreated cuts - oh yeah, _blood loss._ Gil works on unknotting the rest of the rope from around Malcolm’s legs, cataloguing information as he goes to relay to the paramedics. One of the kid’s ankles is swollen, both of his feet are torn up and filthy. One of them… Gil frowns, leaning in closer, trying to understand what he’s seeing… one them is dark, not with mud… but with _blood…_

Byers has _carved_ into the sole of Malcolm’s foot, some kind of _pattern_. Putting weight on that kind of injury looks like it would be agony… and yet Malcolm has clearly been forced to walk across the stony forest floor to what was meant to be his own goddamn grave, tied up and blindfolded and _barefoot_ after Byers had taken a knife to him. _Should have aimed for the heart_ , he thinks, for the fiftieth time in the last five minutes, and that _voice_ echoes in his ears again; sneering against a backdrop of Malcolm’s screams…

**_Your lesson... is that you can’t save him..._ **

“Gil?”

He blinks, eyes stinging as he tries to force himself back to the present, to the Malcolm sitting in front of him - _who is here, alive, right now,_ and needs Gil. If the kid can sit there calmly after everything he’s experienced, there’s no excuse for Gil not to do the same. He _prayed_ to find Malcolm. Now he’s got his wish he needs to keep it together and not get lost in memory, or speculation, about what he heard over that radio.

He gives a strained nod, tosses the blood-stained rope aside, but Malcolm's eyes are still on him, his brow furrowed in concern. “Gil...? What’s wrong?” There are _so many_ responses Gil would like to give to that question, everything from incredulous laughter to climbing out of this hole and showing Jason Byers _exactly_ what he thinks of his handiwork. But all of them are about making himself feel better, and that’s not why he’s here.

“Don’t worry about me, kid.” He shrugs off his jacket and spreads it over Malcolm. “Ambulance should be arriving soon. You want to try taking that drink?”

“I… I could try,” says Malcolm hesitantly.

Take two goes smoother. Malcolm manages to gulp down a couple of mouthfuls at least before he pulls back with a shudder. Gil sits beside him, hoping his body heat is doing something to warm the kid up - but within a minute Malcolm is stirring against him. “Help me up.”

Gil’s moving immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Byers. I need to see him.”

He pauses halfway to his feet. He’d assumed the kid had a cramp or something. He doesn’t even try to disguise the look of absolute _hell no_ that comes over his face.

“Bright… you need to be ready for when the _paramedics_ get here. That son of a bitch can wait -”

“No, he can’t - you don’t understand.“

Gil understands that even after everything Malcolm’s been through, that goddamn parakeet of his has a better sense of self-preservation. “You need serious medical attention. Don’t even try and pretend otherwise.”

“But I -“

“I swear to God kid - if you tell me that you’re fine - ”

“I’m well enough… to do _this_.“

Gil is shaking his head before Malcolm can finish. He wants to respect the kid’s wishes as much as he can, _of course_ he does, but this is a bridge too far. Malcolm is his own worst enemy sometimes, and that makes it Gil’s job to step in and keep him safe when he’s apparently too stubborn to do it himself. “I have to see him,” insists Malcolm, and even his _voice_ sounds wrecked.

“Kid, _please._ You are _finally_ out of harm’s way. Would you just let yourself be looked after for five minutes?” Malcolm blinks up at him, a stubborn glint in those pale eyes and Gil feels exasperation rising. “What exactly do you want to happen here? You wanna climb out of this hole - walk on that foot - and go and - what, interrogate Byers? When, speaking honestly kid, I’m not sure a stiff breeze wouldn’t blow you over -“

“Then _help me,_ ” snaps Malcolm. “You think I don’t know how useless I am right now? Trust me, I know -”

“You’re not useless, Bright, you’re _injured!_ No one’s expecting you get up and stroll out of here -“

“I am! I _want_ to get up and walk out of here! I want to see the person who’s been _torturing me_ for the last… I don’t even know! I don’t know how long I’ve been here! I don’t even know where _here_ is! I need _context_ , Gil, I need - I need -“

“Bright, hey - I’m sorry, ok, I didn’t mean to upset you -“ because the kid is riled up, which is the _opposite_ effect Gil is trying to achieve here - but Malcolm’s eyes are already filling with tears again. Gil feels like an absolute monster.

“I’m not _upset_! I just want to _understand_ … If the paramedics get here they’ll knock me out and I’ll wake up in a hospital somewhere and - and it will be like this was all in my head! It will be like some bad dream!” Malcolm grabs Gil by the arm, imploring. “The last thing I saw… Gil, the last thing I saw before I saw _you_ was the staircase in that factory!”

Gil looks into those wide, pleading eyes and feels his heart sinking. Because, even though every instinct is crying out against the idea, he suddenly understands what Malcolm means. He can only imagine how disorientated the kid must be feeling right now. How terrifying it must have been to have spent the last twenty-four hours in utter darkness, completely at the mercy of a man like Jason Byers, without even being able to see where he was or what was coming at him next. _No wonder he wants to claim some sense of ownership over this experience._ Gil can’t blame him - but that doesn’t mean it’s not a terrible idea…

Maybe Malcolm senses him weakening, because he pushes again. “Please, Gil. I _need_ to do this. _Please_ …”

_… Goddammit._

“No promises,” Gil says finally. “I’m not even sure you can walk right now. I’m not gonna help you push yourself beyond what your body can take.” The kid’s already nodding eagerly, and Gil wonders if he’s always been such a pushover. “Before we even think about doing _anything_ , I’m gonna check in on the situation up top…are you gonna be ok?”

“I’ll be fine,” says Malcolm, his voice a rasp, his eyes alight with hope, looking _so far from fine_ Gil’s already convinced he’s made a huge mistake. _Where are the goddamn paramedics when you need them?_ He must glance back at Malcolm four or five times in the half minute it takes him to clamber up the steep slope of soil and find himself back in the clearing.

It’s a different world up here. He glances down again, to where Malcolm is slumped, looking impossibly fragile and small down in the grave. He shouldn’t be down there… he should be up here, in the fresh air, the wide stretches of grass on either side of him, the woods sloping down all around. It’ll be hard, getting him out given the state he’s in, but the kid’s been locked in darkness for long enough. He deserves to see the sun rise.

Dani is waiting near the tree line. He heads over and she hurries to meet him. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s still with us,” says Gil, because he can’t quite bring himself to describe Bright as ‘ok’. “He wants to see Byers.”

Dani’s face does exactly what he’s expecting it to. “Are you serious?” Her eyes dart to the dark mouth of the grave. She lowers her voice. “Can he even stand?”

Gil gives a hopeless gesture, an ‘ _it’s Bright, what do you want me to say’_ kind of shrug. “It’s worse than he’s saying. He’s… he’s in a lot of pain, I’m pretty sure he shouldn’t even be conscious right now. But he’d say he’s made it this far and this is just one step farther.”

“You think it’s a good idea?”

“No,” says Gil honestly. “I think he should be resting and I’d like the ambulance to have been here fifteen minutes ago. I don’t know what the right call is here. He’s… pretty set on trying. Where’s Byers?”

Dani bites her lip. “JT and Anders are with him. Anders brought the jeep up from by the house… he’s in the back. It’s actually not too far. Maybe a couple of minutes walk.”

“You got any more medical supplies in that bag of yours?”

“Not much.” She hands it over. “How do you want us to play this, boss?”

Gil exhales. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet. Let’s see how it goes. Bright might not even make it out before the paramedics get here."

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” says Dani, alarm lacing her tone. She nods behind Gil -

Where a mud-stained, blood-stained hand is groping over the edge of the grave. A second later, Bright’s head comes into view. Gil’s mouth drops open.

“Goddammit - kid -!”

He reaches Malcolm’s side just as he stumbles on the loose soil underneath him, and Gil manages to catch him by his un-bandaged arm. “I told you to wait!”

“Actually, you didn’t,” pants Malcolm. “But it was… heavily implied… “

“For the love of -“ Gil drags Malcolm upright again as the earth slips beneath him. “You can’t put your weight on that cut!“

“It’s fine - I already ran on it, I can handle it -“

“Lean on me,” snaps Gil, “and take your damn weight off that foot.” He replays Bright’s last sentence as the kid actually does as he’s told. “… You _ran_?”

“Head-butted him and ran. I think I got quite far given, you know, I couldn’t see… _ah!…_ where I was going…”

“Kid, this is a terrible idea in a long history of terrible ideas,” mutters Gil. He tests the ground beneath them - afraid their weight will cause a tiny landslide that will send Bright tumbling back down - and when it holds he pretty much carries Malcolm up the slope, onto the grass. He braces him, one hand against his chest, the kid’s right arm slung over his shoulder, and waits for him to get his legs steady underneath him.

Bright stares around, his eyes wide. "Oh..."

Ahead of him the sun sets all of the treetops ablaze; lights the curling mists with a faint golden glow. The sky is streaked with dawn rose, a delicate watercolour fanning out before them. The air’s chilly with dew - the grass gleams with it. The woods feel fresh and new and it’s only now, standing here with the kid beside him, that Gil realises what a beautiful morning it’s turned out to be.

“... Kid? You ok?”

It takes a minute for Malcolm to turn his head and look at him. His cheeks are wet with tears. “Yeah…” He blinks back up at the sky, drinking it all in, and Gil realises he’s _smiling,_ as if he’s been lit up from within. It would make Gil smile too... if the dawn hadn't also illuminated just how utterly exhausted Malcolm looks.

“You need to sit down for a minute?”

“No. No, I’m fine. I just… I didn’t think it would be… like this…” He breaks into another smile as he spots Dani ahead of them. She gives him a little wave. “Dani…”

“Hey, Bright.” She walks over slowly, making sure she comes to a stop a safe couple of metres away. Her smile is small and scrunched, but the look in her eyes is delighted. “It is _really_ good to see you.”

“That’s sort of what I was gonna say,” he says, smiling from ear to ear. “You have no idea how good… to see both of you…”

“JT’s with Byers,” says Gil, watching the kid carefully for his reaction. The smile fades, but that’s to be expected. “Dani, how about you give them a heads up we might be coming?”

She nods, and with one final look to Malcolm, turns and heads off into the woods. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about this?” Gil asks. The kid shakes his head.

“Are we far from the house?”

“Too far to walk right now,” says Gil firmly. “It’s down there. At the bottom of the hill.”

“I have this… picture of it in my mind,” says Malcolm quietly. “I wonder… if it looks anything like how I imagined.” He looks after Dani’s retreating back, all trace of his former smile faded. “Was she listening in… a lot of the time? For… parts of it, or for all of it?”

“For parts,” says Gil, neutrally.

“That’s quite the live show,” he mutters. “Did she… I mean, I know I asked you to listen. I just… I wonder… how they’re gonna look at me…”

“Gratefully,” says Gil, before the kid can get lost in whatever rabbit hole he’s started to go down. “We all just wanted you safe, Bright. They’ve not thought about anything else since this all started. And neither have I.”

He lets Malcolm digest this as he adjusts his grip around his shoulders and looks over to the tree-line, taking a deep breath. Whatever the kid says, he’s weak as a kitten right now and suddenly a two minute walk through the woods feels hopelessly ambitious. _What he needs is __rest_ _…_ but Gil already knows there’s no hope of that until he’s seen Byers, or til his body’s given out trying. Beneath his fear, Gil can’t help but feel a flare of pride at the sheer guts of it. _Even twenty four hours with Byers couldn’t knock the stubbornness out of him._

“Alright,” is what he says out loud. “I want you ready and waiting the second the medics show up. If we’re doing this… let’s get it done.”


	24. Epilogue, Part Three: Burn Out

Their pace is agonisingly slow. He rigs a makeshift bandage for Malcolm’s cut up foot, and makes him stop two more times for small sips of water. He insists that he can go faster, but Gil is well-practised in managing Malcolm's impatience and responds to his grumbles about how he was running down this hill not that long ago with half a dozen reasons why he needs to _take it easy_. What Gil doesn’t say is that the kid was running on fumes and adrenaline when he made his great escape dash - his last stand against what seemed like certain death. Now that the threat is gone, a crash seems imminent… and even if Malcolm himself is oblivious to it, Gil is keeping himself alert to any sudden shifts in the kid’s demeanour.

But Malcolm is quiet, limping along at his side with grim determination. He’s stopped taking in the woods around him, only raising his eyes to check ahead for some sign of Byers. The kid’s a talker - he babbles when he’s nervous and rambles when he’s relaxed, and Gil’s not sure what to make of this silence.

Eventually, through a parting in the trees, Gil spots the back doors of the jeep. JT stands beside it, arms folded, jaw clenched. It’s impossible to miss the fury radiating off the man in waves, but when he spots them approaching, he seems to make a conscious effort to relax his body language. He uncrosses his arms, and Gil notes the scrapes on his knuckles with a dark stab of satisfaction. _Good._ He’s never been more pleased to know that a killer resisted arrest. 

JT heads over and Gil brings them to a stop. It’s only then that Malcolm seems to realise they’ve made it. He looks up in surprise. JT takes in the state of him silently, until Malcolm pipes up from Gil’s side. “I know, right? I look fantastic.”

There’s a beat… and then smile washes over JT’s face. “Took the words out of my mouth. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Bright.” His eyes flick Gil to briefly before he adds, “I heard you wanted to speak to Byers.”

The kid nods.

“He’s been pretty quiet since we got him in the jeep, but… no telling how he’ll react to seeing you.” JT catches Gil’s eye again and Gil knows exactly what he’s thinking. The man would tower over Bright at the best of times and, even with his hands chained behind his back, he still represents a physical threat given the current state of their profiler. But of course, JT is already on it. Malcolm is craning his neck, trying to see around JT, through the tinted windows to the man in the car, but JT pulls his focus back firmly. “ _Bright._ Right now he’s in the back of the jeep, seatbelt on. He’s in cuffs. He won’t be able to move any closer to you, or reach out, or exit the vehicle -“

“Fine,” says Malcolm impatiently.

“And me and Gil - both of us - will be there for as long as the conversation lasts.”

“I don’t need you to hold my hand,” he snaps, apparently oblivious to the fact that Gil is pretty much the only thing keeping the kid upright _as they speak_. “I’ve spent the last god knows how many hours with him -“

“Kid, that’s a non-negotiable,” cuts in Gil. Malcolm turns to look at him with something like betrayal in his eyes, but JT speaks again before Malcolm can say whatever it is he’s planning to say.

“Me and Gil wouldn’t be doing our jobs right if we did this any other way. You played your part, Bright, you got us here. Let us do ours, ok? You’ve carried enough of this by yourself.”

Malcolm swallows. He nods, the words seeming to register, and JT goes forward to the jeep. Some of the bravado leaks out of Malcolm’s posture as soon as it’s just the two of them again. “You wanna take a rest first?” asks Gil, conscious of the toll the slog from the gravesite must have taken on him, but Malcolm just shakes his head.

“No,” he says, but his voice comes out higher than usual. “No, I want to do this.” He’s started trembling.

“Alright, kid. It’s up to you, ok? You change your mind, even for a second - and we’re done. I’m gonna be right here the whole time.”

“I know… Thanks, Gil.” Malcolm licks his lips and glances up at him for a second, and there’s an imploring look in his eyes that Gil can’t quite figure out. “Whatever he says… I can handle it. I promise.”

The door to the jeep swings open, JT moving like a sentry to stand behind it, and that’s when Gil realises: he’s been so concerned about Bright’s reaction to seeing Byers, he hasn’t for a second anticipated his own. The interior of the car ahead of them is dark; all that can be glimpsed of Byers is a muddy boot, planted on the edge of the doorway. Gil remembers the moment their eyes met across the clearing; the man’s desperate last act to finish Malcolm with a goddamn _shovel_ as Gil stood only feet away from him. All the rage and helplessness of the last twenty four hours is suddenly boiling up inside him again and clawing at his chest, thundering in his ears as he remembers the sound of Malcolm’s _screaming -_ and the man responsible _, the man who tortured his kid,_ is only feet away from them…

He suddenly realises his grip around Malcolm has tightened, that his own hands are shaking with anger. _Bright knew_ , he realises, _and isn’t that just typical of the kid…_ to have foreseen Gil’s own reaction to seeing Byers when by all rights, he should have been totally consumed with his own.

He glances back at Malcolm’s eyes and understands now, what the kid is asking. For Gil to let him get whatever he needs to get out of this interaction, however much Gil might want to step in and stop it. For Gil to become a bystander once more - _but this time_ , he reminds himself, _Malcolm’s safe, Byers can’t hurt him…_ because he’s gonna be _right there_ , making sure he can’t.

It takes a moment for him be able to do it and _mean it_ , but then he nods. He sees something in Malcolm relax at the response, even if his face is still pale and scared.

“Ok, kid. We do this your way.”

***

Malcolm knows Gil is doing more to hold him up at this point than he is himself. The man’s arm is wrapped around him, steady and solid as a steel bar - if Malcolm’s weight is tiring him, you’d never know it - and every time Malcolm’s faltered, or nearly fallen, Gil has patiently braced him up, waited for him to recover his breath or right himself on his good foot. He knows Gil would rather he was resting and waiting for the paramedics to arrive… that Gil thinks going to speak to Byers is a crazy idea. Gil _knows_ that, without his help, Malcolm would have never made it halfway to the jeep… and yet here he is anyway, supporting him in every sense of the word as he limps closer to the man who tried to kill him.

He can’t put into words how much it means to him. He can feel the tension coiled in the other man’s shoulders; his frame tautening with every step they take closer to the car - but Gil can’t understand how much safer Malcolm feels just having him _there_. The pain and exhaustion of the last twenty four hours are inches from the surface, and soon he won’t be able to fight them any longer… but right now… right now, they come second to _this._

The inside of the car is wreathed in shadow. Byers is still hidden from him, lost in the dark, but not for much longer. Malcolm takes a final, faltering step forward and comes into line with the open door. With a nod, Malcolm transfers his weight to lean on the car door and Gil reluctantly steps back a foot or so. He’s clearly unhappy at doing so, and Malcolm misses the support of the other man the moment it’s gone. He steadies himself before he finally raises his head, and looks into the car.

The shadows shift. The man in the darkness turns, twisting towards Malcolm, bringing more and more of himself into the pale morning light.

The worn, blood-stained ( _his blood,_ Malcolm realises _)_ denim of his jeans as his knee swings over the threshold of the car. The muddy shirt, an emergency bandage wrapped around one shoulder. A broad pair of shoulders, pulled back by cuffs; a bruise darkening on his forehead - the only mark Malcolm managed to leave on him in return. Malcolm registers it all dispassionately: the clean, well-trimmed hair; the well-muscled body; an over-sized frame that seems too big for the interior of the car. It’s only when his gaze finally meets those eyes - a cold, eerie grey, keenly intelligent, sharp as a scalpel’s edge - that he feels anything like _recognition_ ; something that seems to _belong_ to the sense of Byers that he has.

“Jason,” he says, as steadily as he can. _Gil is right there,_ he knows. _JT is right there._

Byers just watches him, like something cold and removed, a creature watching from the depths of an aquarium. _Byers hasn’t seen_ _his_ _eyes before, either_ , he realises. He wonders if the man feels anything different looking at him now than he did before, when he was looking down at him tied to that chair, masked by the blindfold.

Malcolm’s not sure how long he stands there in silence before he speaks again, and his voice is trembling. “ _Say_ something,” he demands.

Because until he hears that voice, he can’t _know._ Not in his gut, not in his bones.

Byers leans forward slowly, so as not to jar the seatbelt. Malcolm is fascinated, feeling like he’s watching from somewhere else entirely, as Byers fixes that predator’s gaze on him and whispers:

“I should have held you down and packed your throat with dirt.”

Gil twitches in the corner of his eye. He can sense JT poised to step between him and the killer in the car, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Byers.

“I should have stuffed your lungs with it,” the man hisses, eyes glowing with a barely-contained fury. “Filled you up with earth and left you in the ground. _Where you belong_. Where you were _meant to be.”_

As he speaks, phantom fingers twitch to life and brush against Malcolm's skin - the ghosts of touches and bruisings and blows he never saw coming. It’s the voice that smiled and snarled and _laughed_ when he begged, while he was choked and burned and drowned and buried and for a second it’s all too much. Too much to remember it isn’t happening _now_ and for one fearful, trembling moment Malcolm thinks he’s going to collapse right there with Byers watching, sneering down at him.

 _No no no; don’t give him that._ _Look_ _at_ _him_ _._ This man could lunge at Malcolm right now and he wouldn’t get further than an inch. He tied him down and toyed with him and controlled his whole world for a while, but now he’s _here_ , chained and bruised, and all Malcolm has to do is _believe_ that.

He blocks out the panic it brings. He forces himself to focus on _that voice..._

“You’re _mine_ , Malcolm. Your death is owed. This isn't over."

… and sure enough, _every syllable_ is the link in a chain; a chain that ties this man sitting in front of him to the shapeless spectre of the last twenty four hours. The voice in the dark finally given form and face and _there he is; he’s just a man,_ thinks Malcolm incredulously; he _sees_ Byers now, at last, _at last._

“It is,” he hears himself saying. He studies Byers’ face, trying to memorise the details with a detached sort of curiosity. “It’s over.”

“ _No,_ ” snarls Byers, He grins, or perhaps it’s a grimace, a rictus of an expression that speaks more of pain than delight, although there’s a kind of wild glee in the man’s eyes as well. “Your life is mine now, remember? I gave you breath. I brought you back.”

Malcolm feels a sudden wave of nausea and almost sways. He grips the car door tighter with his scarred, bloody hand, and realises he still doesn’t know what the symbol carved into his palm looks like. _Byers’ marks on his body. Byers’ breath in his lungs._ The thought unlocks a furl of heat in his chest, a simmer of rage that’s been there all the time, carefully kept in check.

“My life is _mine_ ,” he says with sudden vehemence. “I’m not part of your pattern, Jason. You got that the wrong way round. You’re part of _mine._ You’re just one more killer me and my team get to put behind bars, and now you’re done, we’ll move on the next.”

Byers throws himself forward, jerking against the seatbelt and Malcolm flinches despite himself. He immediately senses Gil and JT moving towards him - “no,” he gasps out, because _he’s going to see this through if it kills him_...

They fall back reluctantly in his peripheral vision, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Byers, who is wrenching at cuffs keeping his hands fastened behind him, his face a mask of rage. Malcolm can _feel_ the tension radiating off Gil - he knows the man would like nothing more than to step between him and Byers. “Bright,” he warns softly. Malcolm grips the car door harder, using the pain of the mark to steady himself. Some part of him wants to stay here and watch Byers writhe against the belt, _knowing_ that the man can’t touch him.

“I’m not done with you,” spits Byers, “you hear me? You belong to the earth. The cycle needs to be finished. It needs to be _complete!_ ”

“That will never happen.” Malcolm looks right into those cold grey eyes as Byers falls silent at his words. He sees the sudden flare of fear in them. It should feel like a victory, glimpsing that flash of terror before it darts away, but the moment Malcolm finds it, he just feels exhausted. “The cycle would have never been complete,” he says, calm and certain. “Not for you. You don’t see it yet, Jason. But you will.”

He turns away. He manages to take a step on his own, pushing away from the door. Byers watches him in silence for a few more seconds before he dissolves into rage again, shouting, shaking the frame of the car, but Malcolm doesn’t let himself flinch and he doesn’t look back. Because the man sitting in that car is broken, profoundly broken... and now all that's left is for Malcolm to figure out if he’s been broken, too.

Gil’s beside him in a second, gripping him gently by his good arm, as he hears JT shoving Byers back with an angry curse. Byers keeps on screaming - insults, threats, promises of what he’ll do, and when he sees the older man at his side he curses Gil as well, and Gil doesn’t even spare him a glance. He just puts one arm around Malcolm, squeezing him as the car door _slams_ at his back, and Byers’ voice becomes background noise, lost under the roaring in his ears.

He makes it back past the end of the jeep, out of sight of those tinted windows, before his knees finally buckle.

Gil’s arms catch him, of course, the only steady thing in the world. He wants to say _thank you,_ but he’s slipping away before he can say the words. Before he’d have hit the ground.


	25. Epilogue, Part Four: Drifting Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it folks, the last chapter! 
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you again to everyone who has read and commented on this story. Thanks for sticking with it! I really appreciate it and it's made writing it so much more fun... Malcolm has had a terrible time, but I've had a blast ☺️💜

_… just ploughed right into the side of us. Ruined the paintwork, and your mom… your mom was_ _furious_ _. I mean, I was furious - it was_ _my_ _car- but you know nobody does furious quite like your mother…_

Awareness trickles back in slowly.

Silk against his cheek. Birdsong. A light breeze gliding over his skin.

 _… anyway, you should have seen the guy’s face. She went to town on this poor sap… by the end of it,_ _I_ _was starting to feel sorry for_ _him_ _-_

He blinks - once, twice, taken aback when light greets his narrowed eyes, but not quite sure why. He squints again, the blurry world beyond the tip of his nose slowly coming into focus. A carpet of grass unrolls before him, the hazy smudges of trees beyond. He’s lying on a jacket, the lining cool and soft. There’s a warm weight at his side, and that voice, so calming, so familiar. He rolls his neck… and there he is, outlined against the pale sky, his eyes on the horizon.

“At least I wasn’t on duty,” Gil murmurs, “or I’d have had to caution her, at least, and then I would have been next on the chopping block, - ”

“… Gil?”

The weight at his side shifts as Gil looks down at him, greeting him with a small smile. “Hey, kid.”

Malcolm tries to sit up, setting off a series of minor explosions in his body, aches and stabs and stings all making themselves felt one after the other. He gasps, even as a warm hand lands gently on his shoulder, nudging him back towards the ground.

“Easy there, city boy. How about you just lie back for a minute?”

 _Not moving_ _does_ _seem like a remarkably good idea._ Malcolm sinks back against the coat he’s lying on - _Gil’s_ , he realises, before seeing that what looks like JT’s jacket is spread on top of him. He tries to orient himself. He’s in the woods… _he was walking through the woods, before, with Gil… and then…_

And then Byers.

The memory of those cold grey eyes flashes before him, bringing with it a strange mixture of terror and relief. He _faced down_ Byers _._ Dragged him out of the darkness, the first step towards catching and taming his own feelings about this nightmare. _He did that_.

And then…

 _Oh, god_. He realises what must have happened, and lets his eyes fall closed out of sheer embarrassment…

 **_I know you’re awake._ ** ****

He slams them open, heart suddenly racing at that voice whispering in his ear, the horrifying associations the dark brings with it. _No_ _\- he’s not there - not anymore -_

Gil captures his hand in his own and squeezes it lightly, shifting so that he’s sitting right in Malcolm’s field of vision. “Hey - you ok?”

His gaze holds him steady. The brief sting of panic starts to fade.

Malcolm nods. For a moment he just contents himself with lying back, feeling the reassuring grip of Gil’s hand around his. Then, because anything is better than thinking about that voice waiting for him in the dark - or the fact he's pretty sure he just _fainted_ in the older man’s arms - he says, “you were… Were you talking?”

A small, almost sheepish smile. “I was talking,” Gil agrees. “I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up and I didn’t… I thought you might like to hear a friendly voice.”

Malcolm digests this. A little burst of warmth take up residence alongside the other aches and pains in his chest. “About… your car?” He feels a grin creeping across his face; it’s always tickled him, how much Gil loves that car. Gil shrugs.

“It was that or the Yankees.” Gil glances over his shoulder with a frown of irritation. “Ambulance has arrived. They’re trying to get it up the hill, so they might be a few minutes. You doing ok?”

Malcolm assesses. In all truth, there’s not a part of him right now that _doesn’t_ hurt, and now he’s surrendered himself to lying back on the grass, he’s not entirely sure he could move again if he wanted to. All the adrenaline, the _necessity_ that powered him from the grave to the jeep has dissolved, leaving him limp and boneless _._ But he’s alive - he made it through his conversation with Byers. It’s so tranquil, just lying here beside Gil, and he’s _safe_. After the events of the last few hours, it’s impossible for that not to feel like a win. “Yeah,” he manages finally. “I feel… better.”

Gil’s quirked eyebrow tells him he’s not sure he believes that. “Well, humour me and stay there anyway, ok? Try to get some rest.”

“No… I’m not tired,” says Malcolm. It’s an outright lie: his body feels weighted down by exhaustion, his brain is cloudy with it, but the second his eyes drift closed he’ll be back with Byers, trapped in the dark again. “M’awake.”

“You sure? That walk really took it out of you.” _As did facing down the psycho who tried to bury you alive,_ he doesn’t say, which Malcolm is grateful for. “Don’t get me wrong, I think that might have been the bravest damn thing I’ve ever seen… but you pushed yourself pretty hard, Bright.” There’s a flicker of guilt in Gil’s voice as he says it.

“I had to,” says Malcolm, and it’s no exaggeration - he hopes Gil understands that. “I needed to see him. Thank you… for helping me. And for talking to me, just now. And… for saving my life, I guess.” He smiles weakly. “It’s kind of a long list, now that I think about it.”

But Gil doesn’t smile back. He’s not looking at Malcolm anymore, though his thumb is still circling soothing patterns on the back of his hand. A muscle in his jaw tics.

“Don’t… you don’t have to thank me, kid. I’m just sorry we didn’t make it here earlier.”

Malcolm frowns. His powers of deduction aren’t exactly at their peak, but he still can’t miss the heaviness in his mentor’s voice. “Are you ok?”

Gil chuckles. “Bright… you know how crazy it is that you’re asking _me_ that question?” 

“I’ve always been a little crazy,” points out Malcolm, and Gil snorts. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Gil swallows. “I’m fine, kid. I’m…” He looks away and Malcolm feels panic creeping in, because _Gil_ _doesn’t_ _look fine,_ and Malcolm’s too groggy to figure out why, to know how to fix it -

“Gil…”

“I’m… just glad you’re ok. I was… Jesus, Bright, I was so scared.” He drags a hand across his face and suddenly he looks as tired as Malcolm feels, exhaustion written in every line of his frame. “But you’re ok. You’re ok.” The way he says it makes Malcolm think of his affirmations; like it’s something he’s clinging to and is still trying to make himself believe. Malcolm feels like the command line between his brain and his limbs has been cut, but he does his best to tighten his grip on Gil’s hand anyway.

“I’m sorry… you had to listen,” he whispers. “But I couldn’t have done it… without you there.”

Gil doesn’t reply. Instead he just squeezes Malcolm’s hand a little tighter, a sudden sheen to his eyes that he rapidly tries blinking away. There’s the sudden, incongruous _thrum_ of an engine from behind them and Gil clears his throat roughly, turning round.

The purr rises. “Over here,” Gil calls. There’s the distant slam of car doors, and a low voice Malcolm recognises as Dani’s, and then another he can’t place. Just like that, the calm, surreal bubble he’s woken up in is abruptly punctured. He tries to sit up, disconcerted at the idea of greeting whoever’s approaching from flat on his back, earning him a glare from Gil. He manages to get himself onto one elbow just in time to spot a petite woman in a paramedic’s uniform bobbing into view.

“Mr Bright?”

He nods, even though _who else, lying here, covered in bloodstains, is he going to be?_ There’s a heavy-set man a few steps behind her who comes to a halt… _which means his team must have already briefed them on the situation._ They’re going to treat him with kid gloves; no sudden movements, no raised voices, and even though the thought _should_ rankle, it doesn’t. It suddenly seems essential that he’s able to see what’s coming and he uses Gil to pull himself up a little further.

The woman approaches and kneels down beside him with a kind smile on her face. “Mr Bright - and Lieutenant Arroyo, right?” She peels on blue gloves with practised efficiency. “And I understand we have a gunshot wound too?”

“He can wait,” snaps Gil.

“We have another bus ten minutes out,” says a voice from beyond his field of vision, and then Dani says something he can’t hear and the heavy-set man is tramping away. Malcolm blinks, his sense of control over the situation rapidly unravelling.

“ _Gunshot_? Is everyone ok? What -” He trails off, suddenly remembering the bandage on Byers’ shoulder. _How the hell did he miss that?_ “You… you shot him?”

Gil shrugs, with a look in his eyes that suggests just shooting him the once wasn't enough. _Was there a struggle he missed?_ He’s been so _careless_ , just lying here, letting himself drift, instead of trying to work out the missing pieces - “did he - are you -“

“Hey, nothing happened,” soothes Gil. “He was shot resisting arrest and frankly, he’s the last thing I’m worried about right now.” Malcolm realises he’s holding Gil’s arm in a death grip and he swallows, forcing his fingers to unlock.

“Mr Bright? My name’s Annie,” says the woman, cutting in, and perhaps his wariness isn’t as buried as he thinks, because she’s still made no move to touch him, sitting back neatly on her haunches, her hands in her lap. Awaiting his permission… his _consent_ , and after everything that’s happened the idea makes him want to burst into laughter, of the bitter, hysterical kind. He wants her to go… and he chides himself for being ridiculous. This is what they’ve been waiting for. _He just has to stay calm, stay in control._ He forces himself to meet her eyes.

“Hi, Annie. You can call me Malcolm.”

He looks down at himself and wonders where the hell she’s going to start.

“Ok then, Malcolm. I’m just going to give you a quick check over, does that sound alright?” She has the no-nonsense tones of emergency workers everywhere and when she takes his wrist to check his pulse, he’s relieved to find himself unfazed. Her small, cool hands bring up no association with Byers _._ “Are you having any problems with your breathing right now?”

“It’s… ok…” he says, because he’s not sure how to put how it _actually_ feels into words, after being suffocated, half-drowned and aspirating on dirt. The fact he’s breathing at all seems enough.

“Any pain when you inhale?”

“A little,” he hedges, watching the woman’s blue-gloved hands like a hawk as they position the bell of a stethoscope over his chest. He tries to read her expression as she listens, to gauge how bad it is, but he’s distracted by her male partner moving into view again. He has a cervical collar in one hand and a backboard under his arm, the straps buckled neatly across it. Malcolm’s mouth goes dry.

“Alright now,“ and somehow he’s missed her reaction - the stethoscope is already tucked away. “Just lie back for me now, Malcolm… all the way back, that’s it…”

Gil, who’s been propping him up, obligingly helps to lower Malcolm back to the ground and his every muscle tenses. The vulnerability that comes with lying on his back, unable to see what’s going on around him, makes his throat feel tight with panic. “I can walk,” he says, even though he’s not entirely sure that’s true anymore, “I walked just a second ago, I can -“

“Bright - kid - “ Gil sounds pained, but Annie’s voice cuts in, calm and firm.

“As still as you can please, Malcolm. Just to help me look you over, ok?” She leans over him, her hands gently probing his scalp. He can’t hear her partner’s footsteps on the soft grass. _Is he there? Has he gone?_ Annie murmurs softly to Gil over his head, something about medications. “I’m going to give you something for the pain in a moment - but first, can you tell me where it hurts?”

“No, don’t - don’t sedate me, I don’t want that -“

“No sedation - just something for the pain,” she says soothingly. “It might make you feel a little drowsy, but that’s all. I heard your arm was injured, is that right? Which one was it?”

“Left,” he manages. She moves back, so there’s only the blank slab of sky above him again, and he feels her unwrapping the mangled bandage on his arm. The cool air across the burn makes him shiver. He hears Gil curse.

“Can you tell me where we are right now, Malcolm?”

“In the woods… I don’t know where, exactly… ”

“How about today’s date?”

“I uh… I don’t know…” He swallows, wondering how he ever thought he was _in control_ of the situation. “That’s not - I’m not concussed,” he says, trying to sound less lost than he feels, “I mean, I did,… I did I hit my head a few times, but I just… I don’t know how long…“

“That’s ok, Malcolm. Can you tell me what’s hurting right now?” He feels her taking his right hand, gently examining the mess of his palm before she turns it over. His hand has started trembling but she doesn’t say anything, and something about the way she’s being so careful with him makes him want to cry.

“It uh,… my arm,” he says, “he broke my arm, and… my, uh… he…”

His voice breaks. Mortified, he squeezes his eyes shut, only for them to fly open again when the black makes his heart jolt. He wants to close his eyes and hide from the situation, but _he can’t do that_ anymore - he can’t have that and it’s left him with no safe place to go. The sky is pulsing above him, too bright and too wide, the dark silhouettes of the medics shifting around the edges of his vision. He can feel fingers efficiently unbuttoning his shirt, skimming over his skin, and he’s suddenly aware he’s started shaking uncontrollably. “Can you - can you stop, please?” His voice sounds small, but almost immediately her hands fall away. He hears her saying something but he can’t make it out from beneath the formless, smothering panic starting to swamp him.

Gil suddenly leans into vision, so blurry he can barely recognise him. “I’m ok,” he says automatically, hating that his voice is shaking, “I’m ok, sorry - I’m fine -“

“I know you are, Bright.” Gil’s hand lands in his hair, stroking it in a way that should be embarrassing but right now makes him feel comforted. “You’re doing great. And Annie here’s got all the information she needs… so you can just lie back and relax, ok?”

“Ok,” he echoes. He can feel a tear sliding down into his hairline, brushed away by the hand in his hair and wishes he could close his eyes without making things worse. He feels faint, and sick, and like his hand tremor has extended to his entire body and he doesn’t understand, because he was _fine…_ he made it out of the grave, he spoke to Byers, he didn’t feel _like this_ …

“I think something’s wrong with me,” he whispers. Maybe he misunderstood - maybe he _is_ dying. _Maybe Byers poisoned him, slipped it into the water... maybe the electricity damaged his heart ..._

But Gil doesn’t look scared, and that reassures him. He just looks down at him with those kind, sad eyes( _why does he look sad?_ worries the calmer part of Malcolm’s mind), his hand still stroking through his hair. “You’re gonna be just fine. Maybe you’re just finding it a little tricky to let go.”

“L-let go?”

“You know. Lay back. Relax. Let everyone else worry about things for a little while.”

“Are you… trying to get me to… take a holiday again?” Gil huffs out a laugh. Something cool swabs over the back of his right hand, followed by the slide of a needle.

“I’d settle for you getting some rest. You’ve had a pretty long day.”

“Y’can say… that again.” Annie’s voice murmurs something. He’s lost all sense of where she is… but that’s starting to feel less important.

“That painkiller should be kicking in any minute now,” reports Gil easily. “I bet that’s gotta help, right?”

“That’d… be good,” agrees Malcolm. The syllables fall fuzzily out of his mouth. His eyelids feel heavy, but he struggles to keep them open, knowing he needs _stay awake_. “Be nice… but… I can’t…”

“Sure you can, kid. Just try and close your eyes.”

“No… don’t want to,” he mumbles. “Don’t like… the dark…”

The hand in his hair stills for a second before it resumes - if possible, even more gently than before.

“I… I get that, kid. But you’re safe now. I’m not gonna let you out of my sight.”

“Y’ll be… here?”

“The whole time. In fact,” Malcolm blinks his eyes open - _when did they close?_ \- just long enough to see Gil, looking down at him with a smile in his eyes. “I never finished telling you that story about my car. And your mother. See, the part I missed out…”

There’s other voices too, floating, fading, as heaviness wraps around him like a blanket… but Gil’s voice is steady… an anchor that keeps him moored even as he drifts, banishing every other memory away.

The sky fades into darkness above him, once… 

… twice…

… and then he lets it wash over him completely... sinking softly into the black, safe in the knowledge there’s nothing there that can harm him.


End file.
